In Shadow of the Body
by Amplesound
Summary: Mr Benjamin Miles works for a secret part of the government. When the Old Bailey is blown up before his eyes, a journey to discover who and why begins but while the power of the idea grows steadily in his mind, a meeting with both the vigilant and the accomplice triggers turmoil and Miles must choose a side. Anarchy or Order.
1. Chapter 1

**So it'll be a mixture of the movie and the comic because I know the movie better than the comic because I haven't read it but doing all my little obsessive 'research' have found out a bit so! Hopefully, this little journey I have started will be something you all enjoy. Most characters are not mine, but the 'Shadow' and what that contains, is. Ta!**

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Benjamin Miles sat on his favorite chair in his apartment, a tiny place; comfy and homey.

His brown eyes were focused curiously on the Old Bailey, wondering what mysteries were held in the future. The future, however, didn't look too bright…for anyone, really.  
The symbolism of the Old Bailey was dead and everybody knew it but that was why Miles did the job he did, a small and somewhat futile attempt at making his mark on the world, at making a better world.  
He wasn't a Fingerman, nor was he an Inspector but he worked under whoever's command was more important depending on the occasion – basically whoever Chancellor Sutler said he had to follow, be it Mr Creedy or Inspector Finch – the Fingers or the Nose of the dictatorship.  
He knew that working for the government was not entirely the best place to attempt it, but there was nowhere else he could truly afford to be, not in this day and age. In his bones, he was a mild man.  
The entire situation lead him to this moment, staring at the Old Bailey, waiting for something to happen, looking for direction but the Lady of Justice was blind was she not?  
Miles frowned at his dilemma; frustrated with it when the sound of music wafted in through the window, disturbing the ever thickening stillness, growing steadily louder; Tchaikovsky's Overture if he remembered correctly, the strings and then the brass, blaring out of the curfew sirens.  
Miles snorted sarcastically; '_trying to ease the tension, eh?' t_hought he with conviction until it changed at the drop of a hat and something _did_ happen. Drastic, emphatic, momentarily catastrophic as an orange haze accompanied by an almighty BANG blinded him briefly and made him jump.

Leaning forward and eyes wide open, Miles looked on in disbelief as the Old Bailey, quite suddenly, got blown straight to hell, all amidst the overture that appeared to be celebrating the entire event, the height of the music beautifully timed with the final explosion sending the Old Bailey's blind and useless head sailing into the air and down again while fireworks…

Miles couldn't lean any further forward without falling out the window…fireworks shot out her severed head, the newly acquired ruins. And how ironic it was to have it blow up just as he was considering the insanity of the ideals based around such a building that held the entire country together…by a shoestring.

By the time the phone rang, Miles was already clad in his official clothes – black and as clean looking as the businessman next door though he never felt quite as he looked. If he had to be honest and all was to be explained in depth, Benjamin Miles worked for a part of the government that operated as a plan-b, the shadow of the body, part of a group of people that poked around in the dark after everyone else had left; undetected, unknown and uncensored, looking for what others had missed. He looked smart but it was sinister attire; his line of work was insidious. Infiltrators, men who donned masks and broke privacy and therefore needed discretion; so to be as cliché as they came, he didn't exist to the general public, he was a shadow people, his line of work _didn't_ exist.

So black all around!

When Miles picked up the phone, he immediately wanted to put it back down again. Creedy's foul, demanding and quiet voice told him,

"Get your arse in here…now,"

Miles removed the receiver from his ear and looked at it, taking his time to respond before placing it back by his ear, his reply equally as hushed, cold and lifeless,

"Yes,"

Two moments later, the receiver was down and he was heading out, the door opening, his coat fluttering about him and then the door shutting behind him all in one swift movement.

Out in the city, he walked with purpose; he walked without mercy, donning a different persona.

He rounded a corner just as a young woman rounded it too; fast, fearful, shaken, she collided with him. He was a whole head taller than she and he knew his persona was imposing,

"Careful," he hissed before all but shoving her out of the way as he proceeded on. She looked so confused at his response, clearly expecting the worst from him. He turned back when he didn't hear her move. She was standing dead still, glancing around hysterically, petrified of who was lurking around in the shadows around him. She had long hair that fell in waves to the middle of her back, a petite frame; grey coat, soft hazel eyes, young face – he processed all that he saw before he addressed her again,

"There's only me…but not for long so you might want to get moving a little more quickly,"

She nodded, unsure; she started to move while he watched, considering a little more,

"Actually, Miss? One more thing,"

She stopped and turned cautiously; her arms crossed tightly about her body but in defence or cold were in question. Her eyes exercised caution while her body feigned casualty but he considered himself decent enough so as to stop a meter or so away from her to avoid any further intimidation.

"I wonder if I might ask your name and what you are doing out after curfew…"

"I was visiting my uncle," she answered carefully, "he's very sick,"

"Ah, well I assume you were out at the time of the explosion too?"

He cocked his head, a small smile spreading, when she didn't answer,

"Did you see who it was, Miss…or perhaps any indication?"

She shook her head, exhaling as if she'd been holding her breath, a cloud of cool night air crystallising before her.

"No?" he asked, raising his chin, lowering his voice, starting to use the power he knew he had, to pressure her, to scare her just a tad, "Are you sure? You do know that with-holding anything let alone the truth could land you in some serious trouble…"

"That's all I know, I swear," she said quickly, shifting from one foot to the other nervously while he paused; considering her cowering form, her answer and what to do about it. At last he nodded and allowed her to carry on her way.

But then he almost forgot; how silly of him to have almost forgotten and how sly of her to have almost gotten away with it.

"Miss?"

She stopped again, turning to him, this time looking as if she was ready to run,

"Your name,"

She hesitated and he raised his eyebrows,

"Evey," she finally admitted, "Evey Hammond,"

"Evey Hammond," he repeated, securing it in his mind, well aware that she had been setting herself up for a lie but failed herself at the last minute,

"Unity through faith, Miss Hammond," he added ironically, turning from her without looking back. He turned down an ally and veered left before he stopped, finding the Fingermen unconscious; slumped in various positions against various things. The poster to his right, showing the country's motto, had been clearly sliced in an upside down triangle.

One man had his trousers around his ankles and showed very clear signs of arousal – Miles grimaced, turning from him, deciding to leave him be as understanding dawned on him.

Now_, why did you lie, Miss Hammond?_

He scanned the area, the compact little ally way which hinted at being a maze but lacked the proper twists and turns to pull it off though did the opposite when one was in panic.  
His eyes drifted to the Fingerman on the floor again, feeling a want for severe justice – perhaps just a kick for good measure. Just as Miles took a step in the right direction to do so, he heard his name being called from out the darkness.

When he turned to find out who had called, he locked eyes with Mr Chester, known by no other name though they were on the same team, so to speak. Chester was older than Miles by about a decade with a limp and one glass eye to show for it. His skin wrinkled at the corner of his eyes permanently and his hands reminded Miles of sand paper.

Chester was a hard man, he lacked mercy; so quick to anger, so quick to judge but his ideals were the same as Miles'. He wished only good on the world, on England but he reaped what he sowed at the best of times. Either way, Miles and he were what anyone would call friends.

"What have we here, eh?" he smirked as he approached the trouser-less man, coming to halt beside Miles who looked down again, forgetting about his urge to perform violence.

"These men, I presume got in the way,"

"Of what? The blowing up of ol' Miss Justice? Don't see how they'd be too much of a threat,"

"I met a young woman running from the scene of the crime,"

"Ah, rapists…well…I suppose I should have caught that one…"

"Yeah that was fairly obvious, Ches, but I would forgive you if you couldn't see how she would be able to over-power three Fingermen – especially in a way such as this,"

"What's her appearance?"

"Small,"

"I see the problem…" Chester looked up into the night time, "She met the culprit. What a hero,"

"…and villain," Miles mused,

"Well, how villainess is it to blow up Bailey? She was dead anyway,"

Chester was always as blunt as a nail; he never thought too much about who might be listening and it always caused the hairs on the back of Miles' neck to stand on end. Glancing around to make sure, Miles pointed at the poster,

"See that?"

Chester looked over and 'hmm'd' to himself,

"I do now, violation of governmental property,"

"Treason, Sutler would say," Miles answered carefully. There was a momentary pause as Chester gathered his thoughts before he exhaled loudly and turned to Miles,

"Speaking of which, we best be getting on, Creedy will give us a bit if we don't get our arses down there,"

"Creedy isn't in charge yet,"

"Yeah…" Chester had already begun his limp ahead; calling back to Miles as he studied the poster a bit longer, "doesn't mean he doesn't know how to manipulate the chancellor to make it so,"

"V," Miles whispered into the night, locking it away before following Chester to Creedy's office.

They entered the clean white halls of the head of state together and made their way to Creedy's office grudgingly,

"Are you going to tell Creedy, Ben?"

"No," Miles shook his head. It made Chester turn deadly serious and stop with his hand on the door handle to look at Miles,

"That could get you in some serious shit, Benny,"

"I know that," Miles put his hands up defensively, "I'll tell Finch,"

"You better tell somebody," Chester was about to open the door but Miles stopped him,

"Oi, Chess," the man turned, "I'd appreciate it if you held your tongue too,"

Chester only nodded before opening the door to hell.

In the centre, at his desk, Mr Creedy looked most unholy with his chin resting on his chin while on the one side stood his Fingermen and on the other, their own kind. The devide evident in every situation – the Shadow and the Fingers didn't like each other, it was fragile ground they walked on.

"Took you long enough," a Finger snarled, but Chester only sniggered,

"I believe it was because we were doing _your _job, Bertie,"

'Bertie'…did not reply.

Creedy decided to come to life then, his expression stony and still,

"Did you find anything?"

Chester looked over at Miles who, once again, shook his head,

"No, Sir,"

"I think you did…what was it?"

Miles cocked his head quizzically, feeling Chester's eyes burning into him, urging to just tell them what he knew.

"You will do as I say, Mr Miles, you are under my charge. You've done your prowling – inform me,"

"Sir, with all due respect, we don't 'Prowl'," Miles spat the word out, a dreadful word Creedy and his Fingers used to condescend the Shadow, it was uncharacteristic, Shadows do everything BUT prowl, "And until Chancellor Sutler gives _us _orders as to who to report too, I am well within my rights to exercise my own judicial discretion and withhold the information I have, if any,"

"Don't test me, Miles," Creedy leant back in his chair, his face darkening as he leant back into his chair. To be fair, Sutler had been favouring Creedy for quite some time and very rarely used Finch as an honest source. It made Miles uneasy, he hated Creedy and Creedy had this annoying habit of getting wind of someone doing bad things, slipping a bag over their heads and then proceeding to have them simply drop off the face of the planet; no records, no information, no nothing.

Miles held his tongue but stood his ground, he wouldn't tell Creedy anything.

Creedy just sank even further back into the darkness,

"You have four hours, gentlemen, get information and inform me," his face showed promise of vengeance upon those who did not do as bidden.

Everyone waited a moment before Creedy cocked his head,

"Get out," and so they did.

They filtered out like spiders into the night time, the Fingers of the hand spreading, stretching out as far as they dared and the Shadow merely wafting out into the wee hours of the morning.

Miles headed straight for the Bailey, his heart racing, his blood burning, God he hated that man.

"Miles!"

Miles spun mid-stride, finding Chester limping up to him, his face still conveying the disapproval with regards to Miles' decision. Miles had not the mind nor the time to deal with Chester's righteous drabble over the stupidity of playing with fire,

"Chester, please let me deal with my own problems,"

"No, I want her name,"

"Why?" Miles unconsciously took a step back,

"Because I need to save your sorry arse, I'll give the information, it won't matter who knew it first. Just the name of the girl will do the trick,"

"I'll tell Finch,"

"Finch and Creedy hate each other,"

"Ah, at last the truth dawns upon him," Miles said with sarcasm before he proceeded on, not worrying to much about how Chester struggled to keep up for Miles' stride was long and fluent,

"Miles, you have to let go of the people you hate and the people you don't, you don't have the right to choose especially when it concerns Creedy, if you're not careful, you'll land up in one of them bags you hate so very much,"

"Chester, we do have the right to exorcise caution with men like Creedy and given the information half of us have already obtained, Creedy knows that,"

"Yes and guess what, that's exactly my point."

"They can't, Chester, they can't afford to,"

"Benjamin Miles, you look at me,"

Miles stopped and turned to look at his friend, waiting,

"Don't start playing with death after the Bailey…bad timing,"

"That's _my_ problem. I'm going to Finch. I'll see you in a bit,"

He left Chester glaring after him as he swooped through the streets. Finch wasn't hard to find, he was situated directly in front of the rubble; his hands on his hips, shoulders slumped while his prodigy looked much the same. He looked tired, tired of the world rioting and demonstrating, tired and put-out by the magnitude of the latest one. Finch was a man who craved order, maybe not in total agreement with the current government but it was a place in which he knew what was happening, he knew how to deal with it. His was a strange circumstance.

Miles approached him warily, taking note of what was before him; the size of the rubble, how far the explosion stretched, the colour, evidence of explosives – he found himself looking for the head,

"Inspector Finch?"

Finch turned and wasn't too pleased to see him, it appeared. He sighed heavily before saying anything to him,

"Mr Miles, what can I do for you this fine morning?"

"Actually, I believe it's what I can do for you," he said, so very arrogantly that Finch and his man, Dominic looked over at him sceptically and with that, Miles' tongue caught and he found that that which he came to tell them would not leave his head despite it having made the journey to the tip of his tongue,

"Home-made," he forced himself to say just as time was running out,

"What?" Finch asked with a brow furrowed and a mouth set in puzzlement.

"The bomb, home-made…just…thought I'd save you a bit of time,"

"You know this, how?" Dominic asked suspiciously while Finch only stared, waiting for an answer,

Miles snorted,

"I'm 'designed' to know but three Fingermen saw the identity of the vigilant, William Race will give you a good story, me thinks, and he's a revolutionary,"

"Race?"

"The vigilant,"

"Why are you telling me this? Are you not to inform Creedy on all of this?"

"Oh, he'll find it out eventually but as for who I am to report too, that's still under speculation. The Chancellor is yet to make an appearance so I have free reign over who my information goes too,"

"Be careful, Mr Miles, you'll land up in a bag," Finch glanced around nervously but Miles only folded his arms and held a small smile of amusement,

"I've just had this conversation,"

Finch looked back at him, impressed,

"Alright, Mr Miles, you have my attention, what's the story?"

"He blew up the Lady of Justice; he's probably going to start a riot – strange, Justice is –"

"Be careful,"

"If he threatens Parliament, Mr Finch, maybe I'll start worrying but that's all I have, so hopefully that'll keep the wolves from the door, eh?"

Miles said his dues and departed, leaving Dominic and Finch to mull over what they had while Miles took note of dawn and the time and started making his way back to the Head of the Body.

However, later that evening as Miles and Chester were stopped in their tracks as the television flickered, died and restarted with a man in a Guy Fawkes mask gave them all a taste of their own fears, he gave them the truth and indeed threatened parliament.

Miles' head was spinning, his eyes wide while Chester muttered,

"Oh, Christ,"

Miles' head dropped, the conversation with Finch coming back to him,

"Bollocks."

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**Don't forget to review because they are really nice to get - be it constructive critique or praise!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I feel like my ratings will go up a notch...or maybe not...it's getting darker in my head...**

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Now when the country hits a crisis, when one of the body parts is attacked, like blood cells, security races to the aid of the afflicted.

Within in the knowledge that the Shadow is technically not part of the government, they are still part of security so like the rest of them, Chester and Miles were set to arrive albeit a little late.

The BTN centre was big with multiple entrances and CCTV cameras in every nook and camera, by the time Miles arrived covered by Chester, they were already on lock down, police were already swarming through the passages and would suggest no mere hardship for the escape of the Vigilante…However,

Upon their arrival, who was to step out of the door of their exit but the masked man, 'V',

"Oh, Jesus…"

Miles was slow to come to halt, his feet carrying him too quickly across ground sleek with winter sleet. He stopped a mere few feet out of reach of their terrorist. Chester was able to stop a little sooner however and had already pulled his gun from its hatch and had it pointed at V.

Miles however was somewhat dumb-struck by the man's impressive appearance; masked, mysterious, tall – very and no chance in lack of strength, the girl he was carrying showing a striking resemblance to the girl he'd met only the night before.

"Put her down, put your hands on your head and don't you move!" Chester was shouting, "Miles, get out of the way!"

But his feet would not; he was frozen, captivated perhaps while this impressive visage lay down the body of the girl with care with an audible sigh before straightening up,

"Voila!" he exclaimed, his arms vicariously rose into the air as if pride were swelling in him, discreetly having taken a step closer. But recognition had finally dawned upon Miles as his gaze adjusted to the gentle curves of the girls face, her slight frame and timid stature but didn't get a chance to ask any further questions other than,

"What the -?" while reaching for his gun -

Before he was hit with such force as to send him soaring backwards, colliding with Chester, sending his bullet off in the wrong direction and allowing the two men to collapse onto the cold, hard ground in a jumble of confusion as they scrambled to get to their feet while this masked man swooped down upon the girl, recollected her and hurried on his way without giving Miles and Chester's predicament another thought.

"Get – off!" Chester yelled at Miles as the younger man promptly used him as leverage, fuelled by adrenalin, to start an all-ahead full sprint after the villain, sweeping up Chester's gun as he went, pulling out his own for double defence, dependent on his ears for the whereabouts' of the masked man. He had not gotten far before he became aware that his chest was in flames, his lungs burned just as much and he tired far more quickly than he was used too and before he knew it, he had collapsed, his knees hitting the ground and soaking through as they did so.

His hand went to his chest's aid, the pain gradually increasing as the bruising began to grow, the ever so slight touch of his own hand making him wince. He scanned his immediate vicinity to no avail; he listened hard with his eyes closed, again, to no avail. The man was gone, with the girl and blow-him-down if she wasn't going to find herself in a lot more trouble than the night before …

Miles gathered himself, putting his gun away and putting the safety lock on Chester's before he rose, carefully, to start back towards the BTN centre.  
Upon arrival, Mr Chester was waiting for him with a scorned look on his already scornful face,

"You bastard, what did you think you were doing?"

"Here's your gun," Miles shoved the weapon into his friend's chest, ignoring his angered enquiry.

"I could have shot you!"

"You could have,"

"Don't be a smart-arse with me; you're still a child in my terms,"

"I'm 39, Mr Chester," Miles threw over his shoulder, feeling his own irritability growing inside of his already strained chest,

"I'm 56, boy – Benjamin!"

Miles turned abruptly, having had just about enough of Chester's continuous and, might we add, pointless, ramble but the face he turned to was no longer angry, nor was it scorned, betrayed, shocked – it was just Chester,

"What happened? I've never seen you act like that before?"

Miles had to think it over, he, himself, didn't even know. It was such a flurry that Miles wasn't even aware of what was actually happening nor how he was reacting to it – the only noticeable thing that struck him was the impossible force that had come with being hit with a punch that should only have made him step back violently if not fall, but instead he took flight. The strength was inhuman. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head, looking right at Chester as he did so,

"I don't know,"

And that seemed to be enough. They travelled up the stairs for the elevators weren't working much to Chester's disgruntlement and emerged at the top to find Finch's prodigy, Dominic, unconscious on the floor. Miles stepped over him gingerly and made his way towards the television station where upon he met Finch himself,

"Ah, Mr Miles," Finch came out looking even more exasperated, Mr Dascombe following him with wire cutters, his sleek blonde, hair dishevelled and his face relieved with traces of past terror,

"Mr …Finch," Miles hesitated when the bomb was carried past him without mention, "Mr Dascombe,"

Dascombe didn't even look at him.

"Where were you lot?" Finch snapped,

"We ran up the stairs, apologies for being late to a bomb scare," Chester replied sarcastically,

"Not a scare, Mr Chester, the bomb was going to go off and you and yours were nowhere,"

"The entire vicinity is surrounded by the nose and the fingers, Sir, we're the Shadow, you're not meant to see us and what use, may I ask, would it be to have more security when all a bomb needs is one man with wire cutters?"

" We could have caught him, is my point, we have four men dead and a revolutionary intent on pulling a Guy Fawkse better than Guy Fawkse ever did 400 years after Guy Fawkse was needed! Did you see the terrorist?"

"Yes, Sir," Miles decided to take hold of this question, fearing Chester's temper may get the better of him as Finch's was to his own.

But Finch had begun a quick stride towards the exit; the time for action had suddenly arrived now that they knew more or less who they were meant to be looking for.

"Where?"

"On his way out, we caught him at one of the rear exits on the other side of the building,"

"And – Dominic!"

Finch stopped dead and watched as Dominic hauled himself to his feet, using everything he could for assistants, rubbing his eyes,

"Christ…" he uttered, "I missed him, Chief,"

"The terrorist…?" Finch asked, already knowing the answer for who else could he have missed,

"Yeah…the girl came out of nowhere and sprayed something straight into my eyes – Gah! It hurts,"

"Evey Hammond, damn it, where is she?" Finch's breath caught and Miles looked at him incredulously,

"I don't know, I was out-cold seconds after she blinded me," Dominic responded, still irritating his own eyes.

So Finch and Dominic had caught a lead on this girl, suddenly on the same page as him. The idea, for some strange reason, made Miles' stomach clench.

"That girl must've been the one the terrorist was holding," Chester muttered to him but it didn't get away from Finch's keen ears,

"What?" he rounded on Mr Chester, "She was with the terrorist?"

"Yes, Mr Finch, she was. He was carrying her because she was unconscious," Chester responded, his gravelly voice hardening,

"That would have been my fault," Dominic added apologetically but Finch didn't pay it any heed,

"Get the CCTV recordings from the last two hours, Dominic,"

"Yes, Sir," and he was gone while Finch turned back to Chester and Miles,

"Did you see where they went?"

"No," Chester started quickly without giving Miles' a chance to even open his mouth, "We ran into him but of course Mr Miles, here, is a wee bit faster than I and he got right up close, didn't move and then all of a sudden he's off his feet and crashing into me."

Finch frowned in puzzlement, to which Chester responded,

"Your expression, now, is the same as ours was then,"

"It was impossibly powerful, Sir," Miles added calmly, "Superhuman, even. Chester was not close behind me,"

Miles could see Finch's thoughts racing through his head, trying to make sense of everything.

"What do you think that means? Are we dealing with a bloody comic book superhero?" Finch turned from them both to do God knows what with God knows who before he returned his attention back to them. Alas, both men were suddenly drawn away from his command as a dark, repulsive, greasy figure approached them – it could only have been one of Creedy's men.

Miles could feel the grimace forming on his face at this approach but did nothing to stop it, nor did Finch, nor did Chester it appeared, but this venal man merely grinned,

"You lot," he pointed at the two Shadow workers, "Are wanted in Creedy's office…now,"

The man turned and departed without another word. Miles stayed Chester's wrist as he saw the hand it belonged to sneak up to his gun with a face for murder. Ah, yes, Chester was so very quick to anger.  
Miles turned to Finch, raised his eyebrows and started on,

"C'mone, Mr Chester, if Creedy demands our presence then our presence we must present,"

"The audacity of that man!" Chester scowled as they marched, "Where was _he_, I wonder…"

"I don't think there's space to care, Chess," Miles responded, focusing more on how he was going to side step the questions he was undoubtedly going to be asked, thinking on how he could get Chester to keep quiet about it too but at the rate Chester was degrading Creedy at present, made Miles think that persuading him to be a little spiteful towards Creedy could be easy.

They once again entered the dimly lit, desperate interior of the office and joined their fellow counterparts, a most obvious divide between Finger and Shadow once again, though this time they weren't too far off from the entry time of the others, many still filtering in, sharing looks of annoyance and disbelief of having to stand where they stood again so soon. Creedy was silent as they rolled in, his face unchanged from their last meeting – still dangerously indifferent to anything.

"You're all under my charge," he said promptly to the Shadows after everyone was in and the door had shut, everyone of who was no more surprised than they were careless, "The orders have come in so every piece of information you have obtained or abstained from telling me already, I want, _now_,"

Miles took the time to discreetly slide his way as far from the front and into the back as he could, urging Chester to follow but that man looked like he was ready to kill their Commander.  
The rest of the Shadows looked about at one another, looking to see who was going to be the first to fold but Creedy spared them the defeat and pointed harshly at a man with mousy hair, impossibly high cheekbones and a lean but short stature,

"You, Mr Tolbert,"

This Tolbert took in a breath and began but Miles could tell he was holding certain things back by the way in which his shoulders would tense and arch slightly back as he stumbled over the formations of a lie but the foundations of truth and then relax as he made it over the thick of it. Creedy didn't wait a millisecond longer to move onto the next man once Tolbert had finished.  
They went through seven more people, each one with similar tales and information acting as confirmation of one or the other's story but when Creedy laid his beady eyes on Chester, he didn't even say anything before Chester snarled at him,

"I'm not telling you a thing, Creedy,"

Creedy's thin lips curved ever so slightly, as if hoping Chester or someone would be stupid, yes, stupid enough to defy him,

"You'd do well to do so, Mr Chester, I'm quite capable of making things and people disappear,"

"Are you threatening me, Sir?"

Miles wanted to reach forward, pull him back, tell him to shut the hell up but to do so meant showing himself to Creedy who would hone on him like no tomorrow. Creedy didn't hesitate, so sure was he of his incorruptible position that he was fearless with the words that fell out of his mouth…as far as Miles or anybody else was concerned, Creedy probably had more power over the people than Sutler did with all his fingers prying into inconvenient places,

"Yes, I am, Mr Chester," he replied, quite simply, quite sure.

Chester smiled stonily,

"That's a shame, I'm still not telling you anything,"

"But you know a fair amount?" Creedy pried on and Miles suddenly felt dread rise, he tried to reach without being seen, tried to tell the man in front of him to get Chester's attention but it was too late, the damage done and Chester had let his anger get the better of him, holding his tongue – to say he knew nothing would shame his pride and make his argument pointless, to say yes would send him to the depths of hell. Holding his tongue, however, helped not and Creedy pounced on the opportunity, as did his four men guarding the door,

"Process him, then," Creedy demanded with the tiniest hint of glee in his voice and disgust on his face.  
It happened fast; Chester had not even the chance to speak or to reach for his gun before they were on him; winding him with a gut punch and falling short of dislocating his shoulders as they yanked them back in a lock that would be too painful to fight. Throwing a black sack over his head, Chester was quite suddenly gone from the world and Miles stood in horror listening to his friend's struggles right up until the point where they were silenced so suddenly.

What settled on the room was ominous and dark as both sides were suddenly aware of where they stood in the ranks of power. The Fingers reigned supreme and though the Shadows were a powerful alley, they were naught but a convenient stone upon which to stand on to get to the truth and no one would have had any problem were they all to have been bagged and dragged away.  
The flecks of whit indicated that the opposing side was grinning at them while the Shadows stood uncertain.  
"Now," Creedy's cold voice rose again, "Who's next?"

OoOoOoO

Night had fallen upon London, the eleven o'clock 'yellow coded curfew' was being announced on the sirens and Mr Miles had stopped in the middle of the road. It was a dreary night, covered in clouds threatening to rain and oh, how quiet it was.  
Nothing and no one moved within the darkness, the cold chilling him to the bone but not as much as the past events of the day – if Miles were to be completely honest with himself; he was shaken, racked to the core with guilt and shame and scared.

Chester had refused to tell Creedy anything let alone a lie, down to the depths with his pride! He was more heroic than Miles could ever have hoped to be and while he was dragged away, he still endured the pain, still tried to fight back, still would not give the information (whatever it was) and Miles wanted to help but he didn't know how, scared for his own safety and when Creedy found him, he folded then too. He told them everything, everything he knew and guessed would happen…  
He let himself down.

And now he was standing in the middle of the road in the dead of night in what appeared to be a dead city with a dead justice system and a government intent on death being an alley in its forceful pursuit of keeping a reluctantly compliant city beneath its thumb.

He took a long breath in, the cold air burning him while his hand went to his chest where upon he winced as he touched it again. All thoughts suddenly changed direction as memory of the man in the mask, Evey Hammond and the impossible brute force inflicted upon his dear chest came flooding back.

He ran, but where to?  
How did he avoid detection with an unconscious girl in his arms and an unusual attire of a cloak, boots and Guy Fawkse mask?  
Where would he have found the ingredients to make a home-made bomb?  
And parliament was a big building and therefore would require a large amount of explosives so where would he hide them and how would he run the bomb along the length of parliament? The tubes had stopped working due to the demonstrations years ago…

He didn't know how long he'd been standing there for before Miles was suddenly on his way back towards the office where in the Nose of Norsefire resided. Finch, he was looking for Finch.  
He presented his ID at the door and made his way to Finch's office and just as he had hoped, Finch was still there, staring blankly at a screen.  
Miles knocked on the door, to which Finch responded with a tired wave telling Miles to enter,

"Mr Finch?"

Finch looked up, rather surprised to see Miles in front him,

"Mr Miles, I wasn't expecting to see you here…what are you doing out so late?"

Miles hesitated, finding the words to use that sounded as indifferent as he possible,

"Mr Chester has been detained," unfortunately his wavering vocals gave in to his emotion, "And I found myself unable to make it back home,"

"Why?" Finch was frowning, having removed his ear-pieces,

"He withheld information from Creedy and in light of those events; I regret to announce that I told them everything,"

"Hmm…" Finch didn't look at all surprised by that and Miles felt a twang of anger and shame mixed in the same bowl. Was his timidity so obvious?

"Probably very wise," Finch finished enticing a snort from Miles,

"Or very fickle,"

Finch didn't respond. His eyes had returned to the screen,

"I was looking at this scene between Dominic and this 'V' unfold up until the point where Miss Hammond arrives and sprays what appears to be pepper-spray into Dominic's eyes…shortly followed by him knocking her out and then getting knocked out, in turn, by our terrorist…"

"Yeah?"

"He's quick. He's lethal…he hit Dominic hard but it looked like he had enough force to kill him if he wanted too…I wonder why he didn't,"

"Yes, well," Miles undid his tie and the top four or five buttons of his shirt to reveal his bruise to Finch aware that it was probably pretty bad despite having not seen it. The look on Finch's face telling him everything,

"Jesus…have you gone to the hospital about that, Mr Miles?"

"No,"

"You probably should…and that sent you flying?"

"Yes, in fact, that's why I wanted to talk to you…"

Finch, again, turned his attention away from the screen to look at Miles,

"Where does his brute strength come from? How did he get away undetected from the public? Where is he hiding all his explosives and where is he getting all his materials to build them?"

"Something tells me you have an idea,"

"About the strength? No idea, but with regards to his explosives and such, he might use the tubes,"

"The tubes have been out of use for too long, the wires would have been cut off – there's no more power connected to anywhere down there,"

"Perhaps it's the perfect cover," Miles shrugged, "Undetected…underground, again,"

Finch considered it but looked sceptical,

"It's impossible,"

"You never know unless you try,"

"What about the bombs?"

"I'm not sure about that either,"

Finch leant back in his chair, sighing heavily,

"Chancellor Sutler wouldn't allow me to dwell on this but I think it's safe to say this to you; he's very good,"

Miles nodded, unsure of how to respond,

"Did the Chancellor not listen to you?"

"He didn't care, I said to him what I've just said to you and he told me to 'spare us your professional annotations, they are irrelevant',"

"It is," Miles said bluntly drawing a riled look from Finch's worn face,

"Well now that we're sharing information, here's something for you, Evey Hammond's parents were a leading party amongst the demonstrators all those years back. Mother died in a hunger strike at Lark Hill and father died during some sort of security shedding scheme, obviously having been black listed…her brother…was at St Mary's, Three Water's,"

All that had Miles sitting quite still, feeling the horror flow through him in a steady chill like flood water through a crack in the floor…

"Shit."

"Yeah…" Finch agreed, "I wonder…"

"Is there connection between him and Miss Hammond?"

Finch glanced over at Miles,

"Exactly what I was wondering but he fluttered in and out like a bloody ghost leaving no traces of anything – nothing to identify him with…so I don't know,"

"'Fluttered' isn't quite the word I would have used," Miles commented, looking down trying to hide the amusement,

"Alright, 'trolled', what have you…I think there's something we're missing,"

"Vengeance like, perhaps?" Miles ventured, feeling like it was suddenly very possible that this entire blow up parliament business wasn't just an act of freedom from oppression.

"Perhaps…Mr Miles," Finch turned, looking slightly more attuned to the situation, like he had an agenda, "Why are you here?"

"Not sure, yet, Sir…"

"You knew about Evey Hammond, didn't you?"

Miles was stumped, unwilling to say anything,

"Come on, Mr Miles, of course you did, don't lie to me. Lie to Creedy but not to me. I get the feeling we're on the same side. You came once and here you are again, what exactly are you here for?"

"I'm not sure, yet, Sir." and that _was _the truth. Ever since his chance meeting with the girl and further more with the vigilant himself, Miles had felt himself descend into a vortex of indecision, a despairing sense of loss of how to differentiate between what he felt and what he knew about himself and which side he agreed with more – his morality and integrity coming to a crossroads at which they clashed.  
Finch nodded, accepting Miles' answer as the best one he'd probably ever get.

"Right, well, you're a smart man, Mr Miles; I could use someone like you with me,"

"He's probably smarter than me so I wouldn't get my hopes up,"

Finch chuckled,

"He's probably smarter than all of us but how did you find out about Evey Hammond, then? I know you won't tell me but there you go, eh?"

Miles let the truth simply be, as simple as it was but why spoil a good story for something as bland as the truth?

"So," Finch continued, "Dominic and I will continue on our quest, all I'm going to ask you to do is to tell me as well as Creedy. It will take a fair amount of courage, a little more guts than what was displayed today,"

It burned Miles on the inside to hear it put so bluntly, so ordinary and yet so sharp. His shoulders slumped and he let his displeasure and shame show, for why not? He was ashamed.

"For all I know about the way you link things together, if I simply said that this man probably went through something terrible that tipped him off on how to create bombs, you could probably do it. You've got the know-how, Mr Miles; I'm asking you to help me catch him but on your terms…"

Finch looked at him as Miles looked back, wondering if what he meant by that statement was as crucial an implication as the very example he used for the sake of Miles' 'know-how'. Were they really on the same page of the integrity/morality crisis?

As for the linking of the relevance of the example to Evey Hammond's parents, Miles' had potentially made one. But…despite Finch's request, he opted to stay silent though he agreed albeit slightly reluctantly and got up without a word, trying to stay his adrenalin that was steadily building in his legs. He made it out of the door of Finch's office block, just, and found himself on a fast jog back to his little apartment. Bursting in, he didn't even remove his coat from his shoulders; he pulled Finch's ID card from out his pocket, which he nicked off of the Inspector's desk (for the Nose and the Fingers and of course Sutler, were the only ones that could access crime databases) and sat down at his own computer to log in.

He wouldn't do it again, he told himself as he typed in the password and ID into the login system, but some part of him told him that if he made even the smallest of connections, then he would need it countless times more.

He typed in Three Waters and then Lark Hill Detention Centre where Miss Hammond's mother was detained. There was nothing on either of them other than that there were 80,000 people killed as result of the virus that broke out and that the area was now quarantined, all useless to Miles. But there was an exception; one tiny detail did ring a bell. Lark Hill was burned down in a fire – the explosives having been home-made made it difficult for people to understand why it had occurred and for long time, _how_ it occurred. The rest of the records were gone.

Miles stared at that one small sentence for a long time, feeling the blood in his veins beginning to race through him as understanding, a new light, started to break through the darkness. He may have been in limbo as to who to tell or if to tell but it certainly couldn't hurt to find out for himself and perhaps, in so doing, he might come to a conclusion as to what to do if he did know first.

But this little bit of clarity was well worth the turmoil and he wasn't sure how long it would last for so he clung to it as best he could, saying the words out loud as if letting them ring out would bring a bubble that would enclose him in this clarity for an even longer period of time,

"You were at Lark Hill, V. V…" he let the letter whistle out of his mouth, "Who do you know?"

He started typing again, the people who worked at Lark Hill; a list came up, a list of people none of whom he recognised save one,

"Lewis Prothero," he mumbled, "Now the Voice of Britain…once Commander Prothero…hmmm…V…"

He uttered again, "V for Vendetta."

* * *

**Don't forget to review :)**


	3. Chapter 3

Miles walked through the night once again, the late hours of the evening having completely emptied out the city streets lending an eerie feel to a city that was already polluted with an oppressive air.

He found himself walking as lightly as he could over the tarmac, trying to conceal any sounds as if he were well and truly stalking something however he didn't know what he was stalking, if he was stalking or if he was the stalked or, if at all, he was known of by the stalker.

Vengeance was a word that kept running through his head, a word that spurred him on towards Lewis Prothero's estate, a word that had him stepping lightly – his eyes swooping over his vicinity again and again for fear of being seen and suspected a threat. He was spotted by a Fingermen on one account but Miles flashed him his ID haphazardly before continuing on without a word.

Lewis Prothero, the Voice of London's estate gate was unhinged yet undamaged as if someone had hoisted it up and placed it back to normality with an equal amount of care and precision on both accounts. A clear sign that someone had come and gone or come and closed the gate behind them like a gentleman would.

He used his ID scanner to enter the premises itself and then proceeded with caution through the mansion in which the Voice lived. He considered calling out but if the intruder was still there, Miles risked his own demise. It was clean, impeccably so; variations of art lined the walls spotted with famous TV shows, self-portrait photographs, advertisements, propaganda posters and quotes with/done-by/ done-for/on behalf of and said by Prothero. Miles took it in as he trickled through door way after doorway to get to the stairs that lead to Prothero's room – or so Miles presumed. The man was vain, Miles had to admit. He was a sad excuse for the life of the people. But one photo caught Miles' eye as he entered the enormous, kingly room, guns blazing; a photograph of Prothero and a group of Doctors clad in official military gear in the foreground of what appeared to be Lark Hill's concentration camp. He picked it up, suddenly forgetting why he had come, and examined it, looking for any faces he knew. He recognised but one; a woman to whom Prothero was sticking very close. Where had he seen that face before?  
And then he found another…a priest…where had he seen _that_ face before?

Miles took the photo out the frame and slipped it into his pocket before binning the frame itself. When he turned towards the bathroom, only Prothero's feet were visible.  
Miles' stomach clenched and he raised the gun again, inching towards the body looking for any sign of movement in the multiple reflections the bathroom had, the glass spotted with water droplets which made it harder to distinguish body sized shadows, he got to the door and burst in, gun out and almost slipping on the floor to find that no one was in there, not even Lewis Prothero – only his repulsive, naked form from which vomit splurged out from the mouth. The smell of the gunge was equally as repulsive and Miles let his one hand do the dirty work of saving himself from the gag reflex.

He examined the body further as best he could without touching it, searching for any evidence of inflicted harm but none were obvious so he abandoned that endeavour and made for the ID scanner and looked over the history; his own came up first, followed by Evey Hammond's. Miles straightened, shocked yet…not entirely surprised, the conversation with Finch regarding her history coming back to him. He thought a moment about what to do before making a decision. He walked back towards the bathroom, hesitating at the door upon seeing the body a second time before entering. He picked up the phone (with a towel) which lay ominously close to Prothero's head, screen facing up and ambiguously becoming a silent witness alongside its compatriot.

Miles dialled the emergency number that would send out signals via an attachment to the interlink Sutler used, thus informing all government official that were of importance to his supposed crisis, including Miles' sect.  
The message popped up on his own phone a little more than a second or five later. He then dropped the phone albeit with a little more of throw involved, just enough to break it but not enough to send pieces off in varying directions.  
He then sent his own message out to his comrades saying that he was in the vicinity and had everything under control and then further proceeded to call Dascomb to tell him that he had encountered a slight problem.

Dascomb and Finch arrived separately though Dascomb seemed more panicked than the latter. He paced around the body, his hand on his chin trying to decide what to do while Finch stared at it with a complete look of detachment while Miles had seated himself on a chair nearby,

"I've done the scanner," he said to Dominic as he walked by on long, powerful legs with purpose. Stopping only to heed Mr Miles' comment, he looked down and waited for an answer,

"Evey Hammond," was Miles' response.

Dominic exchanged exasperated looks with Finch when her name was announced,

"She's in deep, Inspector," Dominic commented, his face contorting into one mixed with empathy and apathy. She obviously wasn't doing it herself but her being linked with a terrorist such as this had her inadvertently in huge trouble. She didn't have a redeeming factor any more.

"How were you here?" asked Dascomb, taking an abrupt turn from the subject of Miss Hammond, turning to Miles who looked up in a haze, "How did you find him?"

"Like you see him now," he answered, "I was in the area, doing the nightly patrols –"

"That's not your shift, is it?" Finch asked sceptically,

"Couldn't sleep so I thought I'd do something productive," he made sure to sound matter-of –fact, "And then next thing I know…"

He waved his phone around as indication of the following events.  
"I scanned the scanner, looked for any signs of invasion other than the obvious, signs of bruising on the body – I did all the checks and found nothing. Oh, the gate was unhinged,"

"The gate?!" Dominic leaned into his shock, "Bloody hell, how'd he do that?"

Miles shrugged, indifferent to the situation though he was anything but. Dascomb was frowning again, his train of thought back onto how he was going to let this loose on the public,

"A stroke, perhaps," he shook his head, "No, that's too horrific….A quiet, dignified death in his sleep,"

All party's looked down at the irony.

"Who's going to be the Voice of reason, now?" Miles asked sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at the dead man.

Dascomb scowled at him to which Miles responded with a feigned recoil; an action which did not go unpaid for. His phone rang and upon glancing at the name, Miles really did recoil before making eye-contact with Finch who sighed audibly, exhausted,

"Mr Creedy,"

"You better have answers, Mr Miles. Who's involved?"

"Evey Hammond was the name on the scanner,"

"Ah, the work of the terrorist,"

"Yes and he appears to have been killed by some sort of narcotic,"

There was a brief pause on the other line before Creedy continued, even harsher than he already was,

"Make up a story and find someone who can take up the position and call me when you do and you better find one fast or I will have you disappear like Mr Chester did, do you understand?"

Miles swallowed in memory of Chester being dragged ruthlessly away,

"I understand. Mr Dascomb and I will have a little chat,"

Creedy didn't say anything and simply hung up leaving Miles in a slump, warning bells starting to go off in his head, telling him he had to be careful and make sure his cover-ups were as simple as they were effective. Miles glared at his little gadget for a moment, willing Creedy to choke on his spit and die tragically but…Alas!

"Mr Dascomb," he finally called, "Who do you have in mind for the position to replace Prothero? Apparently it's my job to ensure they take it,"

Dascomb glanced at Finch who was still eyeing Miles who, in turn, was glancing between the two of them, waiting patiently for an answer.

OoOoOoOoO

V stood tall, steady and strong in his bathroom, looking himself over in the full-body mirror.  
At a body he found himself in constant conflict with – a body as powerful as a bulldozer and as strong as an ox but not by his own hand. He prodded himself, feeling the muscle clench involuntarily and bulge as if to burst from the skin as it did so; evidence of the increase in muscle capacity. He was both grateful for and disgusted by it. Grateful for it proved useful in physical conflict and made him far more lethal; disgusted for it was the result of the evils of the camp he had been in, he was the result of their success in building the ultimate war machine.  
Only, they did not get as far as turning his hate onto the people they would have liked him to have made war with. No, he'd blown their experiments to hell before they had the chance to try and had ended up harbouring all the hate that had built up inside of him, nurturing it until a time came when he could vindicate vengeance; such a time as this.

He'd been driven by hate for years; where others had dwelled, dwindled and died in despair, V had only thrived on it; his will to live spurred on by his need for a vengeance so extreme that it would not be forgotten, a will that had him collecting what bits of gardening chemicals he could when they had him doing manual labour, stuffing it down his shirt, his pants, swallowing it only to throw it up in his cell later – anything. In his spare time, where the good doctors thought him wasting away, he concocted his bomb and when November the fifth rolled round, off it went and V walked out a physically free man entrapped in a glass cage that would forever have him looking at reflections of the past that empowered him and kept him in check with the task at hand. He'd killed people in the process of his escape, his fellow detainees, including, most probably, Valerie, the beautiful woman whom he had never met though knew like the back of his hand and was inspired by. Every day became an act of memory in honour of them; so that they would never die.

In time, V let go of his hate and became focused on the fact that it was not only he who had been wronged; it was the families of the detained, the children of families post Lark-Hill who had to deal with oppression, the man who worked a 9-5 job under 24 hour surveillance, the nurse who had to walk home as quickly as she could before Fingerman pounced and stole her dignity, the men and the women who could not be with other men and women because law said they were a disgrace and needed to be 'exterminated'. He was a smudge in the grander scale of the millions that were manipulated and betrayed by a government who saved them from devastation only to have them thrown into what could only be the world's largest sanatorium, completely isolated from any outside influence.

And so, V became ' V' – the modern Guy Fawkse from Cell five, commemorating November the 5th as he felt it should always have been, holding significance both personally and historically and, if all went according to plan – which it sure as hell would for he would take every measure to _ensure_ that it would – futuristically. Blowing up the Bailey was the first step, the BTN station second, but that failed, no matter – Commander Lewis Prothero was the third and that worked fine. V had felt good to be remembered, to know that Prothero had taken note of him and thus feared him then more than he would ever have done. The ghost came back to haunt him.

As he put his garments back on piece by piece; applying lotion where it was needed as he did so for his burned skin no longer moisturised itself; a small burden suddenly lifted.  
He left the bathroom, securing his mask on his head to ensure Evey did not walk out and see him, gasp in horror and die.  
He put his favourite film on, 'The Count of Monte Cristo'. Oh, how he loved the film and he often asked himself why and always came to the same conclusion; because it so vividly depicted what V, himself was trying to achieve. But he envied the old ways, how men would pop up with swords, yell En Guard and a simple fight would ensue, death would follow and all would be well all the while having your identity safely secret for their would have been no way to find the culprit in those days. It wasn't long before V found himself 'fighting' his armoured, hollow knight with ferocity; putting his sparring skills to good use.

When he had whipped the head off of his sparring partner only to have it roll to a halt at Evey's feet, he was quick to rectify himself, trying to resume his gentlemanly composure though it was hard, needless to say he was embarrassed for sparring with an imaginary friend is hardly graceful or adult or expected of someone plotting to blow up Parliament.

"I hope I didn't wake you?" said he bashfully, never had he been more pleased to have been wearing a mask than then.

"Yes, I just thought you were fighting…" she cocked her head, her one finely plucked eyebrow raised, "I mean, for real,"

V saw an opportunity and seized it, using his sparring skills again,

"It was the Count of Monte Cristo! My favourite film – oh, it gets me every time,"

"I've never seen it,"

V turned to her, surprised – she knew Shakespeare so very well and yet she had not seen this classic of all classics?! The scandal! The Blasphemy!

"Really? Would you like too?"

"Does it have a happy ending?" she still looked sceptical,

"As only celluloid can deliver!" V responded with pride, convinced of her submission,

"Alright," she turned slightly to make her way towards the television but stopped short, scrutinising the sword, "Put the sword away,"

What else could V do but comply?  
It was an effort to go through the whole film without quoting every line, he knew it too well! Ah, the plot! Ah, the characters! The dialogue!

"You find your own tree!" he couldn't help it and he chuckled, aware of Evey's glance of amusement. And then the credits began to roll and the film was over and V was interested in Evey's reaction. But her face told a different story to the one he was expecting; she looked pained, heartbroken even,

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah," what a relief, "But I felt sorry for Mercaidies,"

"Why?"

"Because he cared more about revenge than he did about her,"

He hadn't thought of that…he was silent a moment, thinking about it. Why should he have done? He was so focused on his own vengeance and he had no female influence to tell him otherwise and hadn't any at all for twenty years and now, here sat; this very beautiful and very intelligent woman in his house making him question his favourite movie based on the unwritten law that love comes before vengeance but what if you love vengeance more than your lover? Where is the morality?  
Only since having her there had he started to question his motives, not that he wasn't sure. He was steadfast in his ways and his plans; those would never change but was he correct in thinking that vengeance for the entire country was his choice alone?

He pressed stop and the television went to the news which he proceeded to avoid but failed as Evey caught whiff of what was happening,

"Wait, what's this?"

The news surrounding Prothero's death…they were calling it a heart failure were they? V wanted to snort but then stopped and found it plausible, the narcotic he used instigated heart-failure so they weren't entirely incorrect it was just a wee bit more violent than they were letting on.

"She's lying," Evey mused to which V responded, rather impressed by her perceptibility,

"How do you know?"

"She blinks a lot when she's forced to read out a story she knows is false,"

V looked at her a while longer, considering her; she was observant which meant time was running out – ah, the eye swivel, she knew.

"I couldn't find my ID yesterday, did you take it?"

"Would you like a lie or the truth?"

She launched up in front of the television, her posture aggressive, he hair waving about her like a main lending it's ferocity to her anger – but a face caught in action on the television behind her caught his momentary attention. A man, younger than middle-aged but getting on, a stoic sort of face – where had he seen it before but it was gone before he had the time to fully bring it into focus.

"Evey, I may have killed those fingerman that attacked you but I heard no objection there,"

"What?!"

"Violence can be used for good,"

"What are you talking about?!"

"Justice." Plain and simple.

She slumped down next to him, taking it in – he had realised that he'd officially taken away her freedom, using her ID as a scapegoat was probably an unfair move on his part but it was easier than his original plan.  
Once she had calmed herself down, she stood again and V prepared himself for further onslaught,

"Are you going to kill more people?"

"Yes," Plain and simple.

She didn't respond nor ask any further questions; instead she walked out – leaving him to dwell upon his actions none of which, despite upsetting her, he regretted.  
But who was this man, he was back on the television, seemingly unaware of the press surrounding Prothero's estate. He was talking to Creedy and my, how Creedy looked so vicious. The man seemed to be holding his ground alright though…  
BTN station. V, straightened…recognition dawning upon him, he was the man he'd seen on his way out, who hesitated upon his trigger finger, who only decided to act when he saw Evey passed out – he recognised her that was for sure. Creedy left while the news agent in the foreground began to wrap up the story and this man stood a moment, turned, realised he was in direct line of the camera and looked straight at it a moment and V felt a strange sense of watchfulness creeping up, as if he were looking at a man who was looking back at him.

OoOoOoO

Miles had been told to find someone to replace Mr Prothero and he had gone to Dascomb for suggestions. He never watched television mostly because most of what was on it had gone through the BTN and had been censored and was useless to the common eye, nothing but complete and utter nonsense.

Creedy had found him on his way out, not long after dawn had crept in over the horizon followed by an early looking 9am light due to London's winter months, followed by the press, of course. Dascomb, Creedy, all the Fingerman and other security members were hanging around, proof reading scripts so that the truth of the incident would not come out. Miles was disgusted by it, Creedy saw it and gave him a mouthful to which he realised the camera, though not necessarily focused on him, was facing his direction and suddenly he felt exposed, almost embarrassed and so he opted to stare it down, as if facing down a demon.

Now he was on his way to the man who was intended to be Lewis Prothero's successor; Gordon Deitrich. He was a man well known for comedy, Miles had seen his show but once and smiled but was disappointed in it. It lacked the rawness of true comedy, the daring of someone mocking another – mocking religion, mocking race, the government, themselves – it lacked freedom like most things. But Deitrich was an incredibly intelligent man, that much Miles could tell and the only thing that held the _man_ back was the fact that he cared much and more about the people he shared his success with…they were a family, as far as family goes. Was that not the saying on film/tv show sets? If you're a loner and life goes badly, you land up in showbiz, which was more or less what Deitrich seemed to imply in most of his funnier comedic stunts. However, if he operated alone, he may very well have been the more visible and believable form of the man now known as 'V'.

He arrived at Mr Deitrich's humble looking home and knocked tentatively, having gone over his lines over and over again to ensure he didn't 'blow his cover'.  
Mr Deitrch, a _very_ tall man with a crooked nose and well-fed exterior yet warm and forthcoming aura, opened the door and raised his eyebrows at this unexpected visitor who smiled back at him with as much enthusiasm as he could muster given the discomfort he began to feel,

"Good morning, Mr Deitrich…I presume,"

"And a very good morning to you and you presume correctly, Mr…"

"Miles," he extended his hand which Deitrich enveloped easily; keeping eye contact while producing a sturdy hand-shake.

"What do I owe this visit? Have we met?"

"Regrettably not, Sir," Miles inclined his head, "I'm here on behalf of BTN – I work as one of the executive producers for Mr Prothero whom –"

"Ah yes," Deitrich's smile flattened, as did his voice, the displeasure of it all clear upon his long face, "Lousy business…"

"Yes…" Miles frowned, unsure of what to make of the response, "Yes…well I was hoping I might be able to talk to you about a proposition,"

Deitrich glanced back at him, his eyes swooping up and down the length of Miles' body before he nodded and stepped aside,

"Very well, come in, then,"

Miles stepped through the door and into Deitrich's less humble interior. The house was lavishly clean and porcelain like, arty but not at all like Prothero's. He seemed to be a fan of ancient art works, classic things like porcelain dolls and record players, Shakespeare and Dickens. People and things Miles had long thought forgotten. He was very intrigued by it all and was looking with particular interest at a picture taken…what….a good 50 years ago? Two monks standing in the wake of a tree, praying before a Buddha head wrapped up in its roots; when Deitrich broke into his thoughts,

"Tea, Mr Miles?"

Miles turned to find Deitrich standing very straight, filling up the door way of his kitchen with two steaming mugs. Warmth could not be more welcome. Miles took it gratefully and followed Deitrich into his living room in which he seated himself upon a couch and offered Miles a seat opposite him. The room was bright in the glow of sunlight as it poured in through a particularly large window just behind his seat. All in all, Miles liked Mr Deitrich's house.

"Right," Mr Deitrich began, "What is your proposition, young man?"

Miles snorted,

"Hardly a young man anymore, Mr Deitrich,"

"Younger than I, I assure you," he took a sip, his eyes lighting up but a little, "And, you still have the looks of a younger man too,"

Something about the way he said it made Miles do a double take, allowing himself a longer sip than was the norm to collect himself and get over the implications,

"I suppose I should thank you, but my proposition is that BTN is offering you the roll of the Voice of England, the new Lewis Prothero. Of course you will be granted permission to make your _own_ Voice and you will be paid double what you are being paid now. In retrospect, you will have to do the show within the confines of the rules and regulations laid down by High Chancellor Sutler. I dare say the people will like you more,"

Miles said the last bit into his tea mug whilst taking another sip so whether Deitrich caught the last comment or not was unbeknownst to him. But the larger man was frowning as if offended by the offer,

"And what _are_ these 'rules and regulations'," he spat them out like poison, "Mr Miles, pray tell,"

"I'm uninformed as to the minor details,"

"Those are fairly substantial details, Mr Miles, and you should know them if I am to make an educated decision" then Deitrich looked away as if amused and proceeded on to mock himself much to the dismay of Miles, "…of course that's a long shot, good God, what am I talking about,"

Miles was silent, awaiting an official response so as to continue but Deitrich seemed to have decided to reject the notion altogether,

"No, Mr Miles, if they don't tell you how the whole damn thing works, (_you_, the executive) then I see no good that could possibly come from it."

And truth be told, neither could Miles and as luck would have it, he finished his tea and placed it gently upon Deitrich's beautifully carved oak wood table. He drew a finger across the surface and smiled appreciatively,

"Genuine, huh?"

Deitrich smiled, accepting and welcoming of the subject change,

"I wanted it the moment I saw it, nothing more, nothing less,"

"Oakwood; good tree," Miles felt his face slacken…what an incredibly idiotic thing to say but Deitrcih didn't appear to think so and nodded in agreement, looking at it as if looking upon the past, upon the memories that made him smile.

Miles had always had a fondness for trees, a strange sort of paternalism towards all things green – all things natural since the world seemed to be lacking in it these days. He had a few plants growing about his flat and he had always wanted a green house, alas, time, money and effort were things he lacked or could not bother to muster.

The slack faced feel dissipated and was replaced, he feared, by a sullen look, a man saddened by the lack of beauty. He rose,

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr Deitrich, unfortunately, if there is nothing I can do to change your mind; then I must be on my way,"

Deitrich rose too, towering above him by almost a full head, leading him to the door and allowing him to take a step out of his beautiful home before he tapped Mr Miles gingerly on the arm as he was about to leave,

"Do come again, for tea or drinks or what have you,"

He nodded his goodbye then and proceeded to close the door with assurance, leaving no uncertainty surrounding his offer – he meant it and Miles had ¾ of a mind to take him up on it. It was a damn good cup of tea. He had always liked tea, too. It was a childhood comfort; tea with lots of sugar.  
But to replace the sweet with the bitter, he had to tell Creedy and co. that he had failed to recruit Deitrich as the new Voice of England…he had to do it while trying to say that he had put genuine effort into it.


	4. Chapter 4

Miles sat at his computer that evening, having been told by Creedy that if he failed to recruit Mr Deitrich one more time, then he'd find a way to make Miles' life hell and Miles believed him. He was pretty good at it already. He decided to try again the next day; however, he had more pressing matters now.

He pulled the photograph he'd taken from Prothero's home from his pocket and studied it again; trying to place faces and remember names. His fingers were feeling up Finch's identity card again as he did so – he had meant to return it to Finch but he had either forgotten or decided not too and where the line was drawn was long since lost to him.

It didn't take long before he took advantage of it and broke into the archives again, searching Lark Hill and continuing on a road he knew not why he took.  
He went through the list of names and recognised none save Prothero's but most of them had their PhD's firmly in place, doctors. He went a little further into the system and found a small case file surrounding an experiment being conducted within the camp. So no names, just experiments…

Miles frowned, considering the worst, were they experimenting on the people?  
The article was based on something called Batch 5 – another narcotic that was supposed to cause strange blood anomalies. The general, more common effect it had on the people who were exposed to it was that it killed them but there were a few who seemed to have a certain amount of tolerance for it; for them it caused enhanced strength, reflexes, endurance and pain tolerance, which would have explained V's strength…  
Below the article was a list of names – supposedly the people that were worth keeping an eye on with regards to their reactions towards the narcotic. As far as Miles was concerned, Lark Hill was a camp that was opened just as the war in America began and this narcotic was close to finalised just as the war found its way over the borders of Europe into England – round about the time Sutler clamped down on all things sweet and merry. War machines, perhaps? Turning man into monster…

Miles rose, speeding out of his flat to find Finch, taking his and Finch's ID card with him. Finch was just leaving the office when Mile's turned up. He looked surprised upon his arrival, even more so when Miles handed his ID card back to him before saying anything,

"How did you…?"

"I just took it off your desk,"

"I was wondering what had happened to it…" his face darkened then, Miles could see the colour of anger rising in him, "That's obstruction of private property, theft –"

"Not if I gave it back to you," Miles pointed out but Finch wasn't having it,

"Not to mention, treason, perhaps? You stopped me from doing my job smoothly, Mr Miles and if that got to Sutler or, God forbid, Creedy, you'd be detained and killed for being in cahoots with the terrorist!"

Miles blinked at him, unsure of what to say, fear striking him suddenly as Finch's words were in fact true.

"I hope you've found something," Finch added, his head still inclined, still peering out at him from beneath his eyebrows looking menacing. Miles nodded, glad of a way forward,

"Let me in and I'll tell you all about it,"  
Finch grudgingly re-opened his door and allowed Miles to pass through but not before he turned on instinct, a feeling of being watched spooking him, a face in the shadows but gone before he recognised it. No less than five minutes later, they were back in Finch's office, Miles taking a swivel seat in front of Finch's desk while Finch went about setting up the muddler (to scramble the audio surveillance) before taking his own seat _behind_ his desk.

"Right, so I went into the government archives and I found Lark Hill…"

Finch frowned,

"For Evey Hammond?"

"No, for the terrorist, I found a photo in Prothero's bedroom," he took it out of his jacket and handed it to him, "Three of those people, I recognise, vaguely, including Prothero –"

Finch looked at the photo intently, taking it in,

"Ah, yes, Prothero was involved in legal drugs at Lark Hill; I couldn't find any reason as to why, though,"

"They were concocting some sort of drug that would enhance the human condition,"

Finch looked up,

"Meaning?"

"Stronger, faster, more tolerant,"

"Ah,"

"Most people died,"

"Three waters, connected to that?"

"I dunno but there were a list of names that had been taken, names of people that were responding well…well, 'well' to it,"

Finch snapped too, getting the point,

"Our man's name must be in there…he was at Lark Hill,"

Miles nodded,

"One step closer, eh?"

"One step back and two step forward,"

Finch began typing furiously, finding the information but his face showed signs of confusion,

"Where did you find this?"

Miles rounded the desk to join in Finch's search and found the root of the confusion, much to his own horror,

"It was there,"

"Where, Miles?!" Finch was getting irritated,

"It was in this archive!" an archive separate to the others that was now gone – 'subject matter deleted' it said, "How the fff…"

Miles tapped again, trying to find them but all his progress had been deleted and was lost forever.

"Shit!" he slammed the palms of his hands down on the desk, "Shit, shit!"

"Hand me that photo, Mr Miles," Finch said calmly, which Miles did albeit irritably, "Hope is not lost yet. If I find out who these people are…we might be able to find out who he is,"

OoOoOoO

V sat at his own computer with his chin resting upon his knuckles; Evey was asleep and enduring a restless dream – no doubt a nightmare. Pity, she felt she was in a nightmare in her waking hours, one could only hope to have her sleep in peace but clearly not. V wasn't particularly calm either, though. His leg bounced up and down making the desk shake.

Government files were difficult to hack but he'd done it and he'd hacked the Interlink too, Sutler's prime object of communication – it was part of his cover. Half the messages that could have potentially caused a devastating problem were disrupted and never made it to their respective destinations because V tampered with the network more often than not. He would hack Audio-surveillance sound frequencies and intertwine them with burger shops and convenient stores which would confuse everybody.  
He even used it to manipulate Sutler's decisions sometimes, subtly, though, one could never be too careful. The High Chancellor had some sort of warped relationship with his machine which was a chink in the armour – small but helped when it was needed. He even used it to sync Tchaikovsky's Overture with the Curfew Sirens.

He had been looking for the man he ran into at the BTN and had already spent most of the night going through the Fingers, the Nose, the Eyes, the Ears but found nothing. Until he eventually came across a smaller archive – a link that lead to something he hadn't scene – "Sect. Shadow."

He clicked on it and was immediately blocked. It then took him a further two hours to hack that and break into the sect and there, low and behold, much to his disgust was evidence of Government conspiracy theories.  
'The Shadow Sect' was a sect that operated in secret, unknown to the public and in charge of the finer details regarding social security. They had more power than the Fingermen did when they had no commander…  
V had gone through all the names on the list (not a lot) and found the man he was looking for – a picture beside the name, 'Benjamin Miles'. He looked brighter then, younger more confident, more hopeful.

But V was smart and had hacked into Miles' computer too and saw what he was doing, he immediately found a way to delete all the files that related Lark-Hill to him. It was useless to them anyway, being burnt so badly got rid of any trace he may leave. He remembered Lark-Hill and that was good enough for him but what came before; his name, his age, his looks, his birthday, all were lost to him and in a way, finding out could possibly destroy the idea of who he thought he was now.  
No, he could not let Miles find out anything more.

Instead however, V had begun to write an email. He sensed this man to be someone who could be persuaded if given enough reason – Finch had gotten him in his claws, he saw, though Finch wasn't necessarily a bad person, he was just assuming that he and this 'Miles' were on the same side but Finch had a misplaced morality…he would do his duty until the men who gave him orders were dead. V drummed his fingers on the table surface, 'not much longer until one such time arrives.'

He was considering using a pseudonym but once he'd finished the letter, he gingerly backspaced over the name he was intending on using and replaced it with his own; 'V', and pressed 'send'. He waited a moment until the 'massage sent' sign came up and then removed himself from the computer room.

His thoughts still dwelled on Miles and the potential behind him – absurd, though it was, to make an assumption based on a five minute meeting, where no words were exchanged save a couple and resulted in Miles having reached for his gun anyway and furthermore chased him with an additional fire-arm…  
V stopped and looked back at his closed computer room door, rethinking. He took one step back towards it before thoughts of why he had sent it in the first place came soaring back. Miles had chosen, initially, not to shoot him, it was only because he had Evey in his arms that Miles thought to act – it was because it was someone he knew, though not well and knew to be innocent and had no prior knowledge to her unintentional involvement – social security. He was protecting a citizen…not the government. Yes, if V had walked out alone, it may have been different though Miles would still have landed atop his partner to prevent the other man from taking a shot.

It was this thought that made V wonder if Miles could be manipulated or persuaded – what have you – if he could make him sympathise with his cause then the tables would change dramatically and V would be at an advantage and he wouldn't have to rely so heavily and so dangerously on the Interlink. For that reason, V had decided to risk sending the email, an invite for an informal meeting whereupon he would introduce himself to Miles and Miles could make a decision or at the very least, have something to properly mull over. V also happened to be aware, that a lot of the information Miles had obtained, had not made it to Creedy yet. So Miles was holding back – there was hope.

But this day, an auspicious day to be, as his clock chimed 6 o'clock; was the day on which he would start dismembering the body – well and proper like.

OoOoOoO

Finch was going through the same site Miles had got his information from – only he did find names. He found everything on Prothero which disgusted him; all his legal drug interactions.  
Dominic entered in a flurry then,

"Nothing on our terrorist but you won't believe what we found on Prothero," he sat down in a slump, defeated by the evidence piling up on the wrong people,

"Drugs?"

"Yeah…illegal,"

"You won't believe what I found,"

"Drugs?"

"Legal ones, he was involved in the detention facility at Lark Hill. Mr Miles said he found a photograph at Prothero's, here," Finch tossed Dominic the photo for him to study,

"I see Prothero,"

"Anyone else?"

"No…" Dominic squinted, "I don't think so,"

But Finch wasn't convinced, something was off – if Prothero was in there, someone else had to be in there too. And above all, Mr Miles was more than a mild cause for concern to Mr Finch though he wasn't quite sure as to why yet.

OoOoOoO

Miles was standing in the middle of the road in the middle of the morning, scanning the roof tops, wondering…  
He checked his phone, re-reading the email he had been sent. He was half way to Mr Deitrich's house but he kept stopping to look up and each time he passed a tube station, he paused then too.  
All the questions he'd asked back when it all started coming back to him; what was he using for explosives? Where, what and how?  
He had said that the bombs were homemade to Finch…so that means he would have an intimate understanding of wiring and electronics hence his finding Miles' email so out of the blue.  
Miles' had blue-toothed the email to his phone and deleted it from his computer for fear of Creedy breaking his privacy – his phone was not much safer but that was something he could afford to throw into a puddle and break if the need was ever to arrive. He'd memorised all the details already, it was there more for his lack of belief in it having been sent than anything else.

Suddenly his radio cackled and cracked to life, voices spluttering out incomprehensible words before,

"Anybody in Zone 2, get down to Downey Street Post Office! Code Red!"

Miles glanced up and low and behold written on the street sign, 'Downey Street'. He turned his head abruptly, his body following it around to see people suddenly pouring out of the post office in a hurry, panicked and running as far as they could. Miles started to towards it, a slight jog suddenly transforming into a run, his coat billowing behind him and worming his way through the crowds as he swam against the tide,

"Miles!" someone shouted behind him, "Miles!"

It was Tolbert, his mousy hair dishevelled, his face gaunt and his eyes sunken. His face seemed to be yellowing too as if malnourished,

"Thank God, I thought I'd be the only one,"

Miles looked him over before ploughing on without a word, Tolbert on his heels,

"Where is it?" Miles asked, "Do you know?"

"Something about the control room…second floor,"

"What?!" Miles yelled, starting his ascent, taking two steps at a time, "Second bloody floor! Suicide!"

"On your right, Miles!"

Miles turned and slammed through a sign "authorised Personal Only" to find the bomb lying neatly upon the table. To his relief, 5 minutes were still on the count. He sighed, taking a deep breath,

"Oh," Tolbert arrived just behind him and doubled over, seeing the bomb time too, his hands on his knees trying to get his breath back, "That's not bad,"

Miles, on the other hand, walked slowly up to the desk and pulled open a drawer and withdrew a pair of scissors before realising where he was,

"Audio-surveillance is operated from in here…" the room was laced with little microphones and ear pieces, "We're in the Ear…"

"Yeah, so? Just cut the blue wire, will you?"

Miles sat down and upturned to the bomb, giving it a good examination,

"What happened to you, Tolbert, eh? You seem a little run down,"

But Tolbert grunted and waved it off,

"It's been a tough couple of weeks on me,"

"Right," Miles snipped and sat still, "Oh…shit…"

"What…?"

"What happens if blue wire doesn't work?"

"It should work, the bomb should be dead," Tolbert turned, fear in his eyes, "Why?"

"No…" Miles started to rise, it had cut the time down with 15 seconds to detonation, "No, he's found a way around that, RUN!"

He steamrolled passed Tolbert; his footstep echoes bouncing off the walls as he literally threw himself down the stairs,

"MILES!" Tolbert called but Miles didn't pause until he was just out of the building,

"What -"  
But Tolbert wasn't behind him… "Tolbert…"

Miles took a step forward but then off it went and Miles, for the second time in the space of two weeks, was sent into the air. The scorching hot flames bursting out of the innards with such force, the windows blowing out and as Miles hit the ground, his face black and sooty; his radio went dead and the Curfew Sirens coughed and died.

White noise…

Ambulance sirens and more white noise; his face hurt, his head hurt, his hands hurt, his back hurt, his ears hurt and more white noise. That high frequency fever pitch that resonated when the ear had been exposed to much sound was deafening him and as he tried to stand, his balance was gone and he keeled over, colliding with a street lamp, shaking his head and trying to regain full consciousness.  
So V had blown up the Ear of the body…now that was something. They quite suddenly had freedom of speech.  
And Tolbert was dead.

Miles turned in his haze towards the charred ruins of Audio-surveillance. Did he stay to do what Miles could not? To try a little harder?  
Again, Miles had fled from fire while someone went out with a literal bang for the sake of Martyrdom.  
He needed to go home, to be surrounded by plants and safety but even that seemed compromised working for government such as this. Creedy and Sutler could berate him later but for now, he needed his space – to clean the shame and the anger. Stumbling home and ignoring the blare of the ambulance sirens, he got out his phone, the mission to Deitrich's forgotten, and responded to the email aggressively,

'I'll be there…  
You Bastard.' and he pressed send.

OOooOOooOOOOoOOooo

V heard the pang of an incoming email and glanced at the short of it which turned out to be its whole and grimaced behind the cover of his mask…

It was from Miles, mere minutes after the explosion which caused Sutler and the rest of his 'minions' to be tossed into terminal deafness. Miles was evidently not far off from the explosion or otherwise was directly involved and subsequently lead to the meeting V had planned to take a sudden, more different turn which had annoyingly complicated the situation.

He was about to walk out of one tough spot into another for Evey had just turned on the news and saw what had happened. In V's defence, his intention was not to harm anybody – merely to dismantle and yet here he had caused one death and several critical injuries.

"Evey?" he attempted but the look she shot him was so dark; he daren't say anything more,

"What are you doing?" she looked back a second time, her expression had changed, fearful, "What will this achieve?"

"Personally or on a grander scale?"

She just looked at him,

"I am taking out the main components of this corrosive government, Evey, for both mine and this country's benefit. It will conclude in the eventual decapitation of what Adam Sutler calls the body of the government,"

"And that will give us freedom?"

"Maybe," V thought, glancing at the clock, meeting time was on its approach, "As I said, there is only opportunity,"

Evey looked back at the television, by the time she looked back, V had made sure he was gone – leaving room for her consideration of his explanation to grow.

V made good use of the light London had – the days were long in summer but the night was dark as hell and much to another one of his benefits, November was Winter time and meant London was doused in darkness more often than not and V made use of that, he was good at making use of that.

He saw Miles standing and staring at the ground in the middle of one of the side roads that lead out of Trafalga Square. He had a bruise on his cheek and soot was imbedded in the crevices of his skin, mostly about his hands and neck where the skin folded into itself at ninety degree angles.

Once he was convinced that Miles had informed no one of his being there, he appeared as dramatically as he envisioned himself too – the dramatis persona that he was.

"Good evening, Mr Miles," said he, placing himself in direct ray of the moonlight as if to be an apparition and nothing more and making Miles spin, in shock and then relax, his face contorting into one of some strange, twisted amusement,

"You tried to blow up the BTN station, you killed Prothero and now you've blown up the 'ears'; who's next, what's the plan? What's your story?"

V chuckled, Mr Miles was eager,

"Would it surprise you to hear that I have just had this very same conversation with someone who is believed to be my compatriot?"

"Evey Hammond,"

"The same,"

"You wouldn't mind repeating it though,"

"I assure you, you know just as much about me as I do about myself, Mr Miles but if you really must know, I would suggest you go and talk to a certain coroner, who might give you a more in depth explanation as to what was happening at Lark Hill,"

"I don't care about Lark Hill; I want to know about you!" Miles shouted, his body suddenly tensing in self-control, so wanting to attack V but knowing better.  
But V was still when it came to provocation, he learnt that from Lark Hill,

"Why is my history so important to you, Mr Miles?"

"I need to…" Miles took a breath, staying the rage, a rage that was at his own confusion than anything else, V was sure. If Miles had any intent on catching V, he would have informed Creedy, V was holding faith, "Two men of my sect are dead defending to different ideals…it would appear, I need to understand you. **Please**, tell me about you,"

"Again, Mr Miles, the Coroner will give you all you need to know. Now tell me, is this you attempting to pick a side? I've told Britain what I plan to do and why I plan to do it, you already have my motives and you have targets – "

"Targets?" Miles frowned, "I have no such –"

"The photograph, Mr Miles, you have the photograph and again, I say, the coroner. But of course, you deserve some closure for the death of your friends. Firstly to Mr Chester, is it? I appreciate his ferocity and stead-fast grit in keeping whatever information he had to himself and I assure you, it will not be in vain. As for the man I killed at the post office –"

"Mr Tolbet," Miles hissed,

"Ah, Mr Tolbet, I meant no harm to him or anybody, alas that went awry and Mr Miles, I _am_ sorry. I suppose I was foolish to think that a bomb could go off and injure none. Of course, I had first-hand experiences; I am but a man,"

"Some would argue,"

"I know, but would you?"

Miles was silent,

"I have to replace the Voice of London, I have been asked to approach Mr Deitrich but he had refused,"

"Hmm…I suspect you and Mr Deitrich have quite a bit in common…" V uttered thoughtfully but Miles paid it no heed though V stored it for future, potential, emergency use.

"London had no voice; London has no ears…what comes next? You tell yourself you're a freedom fighter, a hero but at the rate you're going, you'll bring chaos!"

"Chaos and anarchy will be the stepping stones to a freer country, Mr Miles, there can be no order without chaos. You know this! The only way anybody can realise that they are completely free is to realise they are spiralling out of control because there is no higher power to stop them, only themselves. Thus, anarchy - as a people does as they please and then…Mr Miles, as one can only hope, a new world order.  
It needs to happen and I believe you and Miss Hammond are very much alike and will be of use when the time comes,"

"How do you know I'll help you," Miles tried to sound angry and negligent but V could see past his mask, he'd hit a nerve in which Miles was once again thinking, thinking and if he mentioned the coroner again, Miles would have it firmly set in his head that that was the path to take and so he would set off down a path that would lead him to the truth and thus a better understanding and just maybe, a final conclusion but V could only hope.

He needed to talk to Finch too and he'd spotted Finch looking into Lark Hill and one William Rookwood so there was an option but first,

"The coroner, Mr Miles, Dr Surridge, I believe," and he left him there. V had killed Prothero yes, but there were others and they were all, if one would excuse the manner of speech, on his hit list. He was sorry for Miles, sorry for a great many things that he had suppressed but Miles would be waking up to many dead men and women along the way, his only hope was that Miles made it to the coroner before he took her out too.

A face…there in the dark, gone before V double checked; upon glancing back, Miles was walking away but he too appeared to have noticed something.


	5. Chapter 5

V stood in the centre of the room he had made a shrine of, dedicated to Valerie. Valerie, the beautiful woman from V's neighbouring cell, incarcerated for being a lesbian. He stood there often, making sure all the candles were always lit, that the Scarlet Carson's were always alive, that the poster of 'The Salt Flats' was always clean; making sure that everything was perfect.  
He was inspired every day by this woman.

V could not remember his life prior to incarceration, could not even remember _why_ he was incarcerated. But he remembered the despair, the hollow agony that came with the acceptance that one would die in there. He remembered feeling like he was turning into nothing but a human puppet into which poisons and medicines would be injected and taken sample of and forced to undergo the most horrific things in the name of science, hearing that he was going to save the country if whatever it was they were doing to him worked. But what were they doing? Why should he care if it only resulted in his death anyway, like so many around him?  
He remembered the first wave of numb indifference – what were they? Nothing.

But, he remembered the day it changed too – the day he felt the first wave of the human will – the natural instinct to survive, that little voice that was so weak finally breaking out of the darkness telling him that the end was only nearing because he had given up – his body hadn't given up yet, so why should his spirit? It was the day he had received Valerie's letter through the hole in the wall.

He had been drugged so intensely and his body was wracked with pain as his muscles, heart and mind reacted to it – expanding, convulsing, causing him to scream with every ounce of air his lungs had inside of them. His veins expanded and tried to break free of his skin, tears were rolling down his cheeks and he prayed for it to stop knowing that God would do nothing. But the little scratch of paper was easily picked up and the white in the grey caught his eye and he had forced his body to move to retrieve it. He collapsed by the door, for the tiniest inch of light to read what was written upon the paper. His hands shook as he began to read and in those few moments as his body began to calm, he felt things begin to change.

He smiled when she made her discovery, her description of wrists; his heart broke when her parents neglected her. Over the course of the coming days, Valerie's story was what had kept him alive, kept him going – drawing on every emotion he had thought he'd forgotten. He felt elated when he read of her meeting of Ruth; decided he'd attempt to grow Scarlet Carson's one day when he read that they had them in their house; was enraged when Ruth was taken from her and then, at the very end, he felt inspired. Valerie lived within the confines of a cell now but she soared and she had saved his life, in more ways than one. He had decided to live, decided to find a way to escape and V remembered every plan he had made to ensure that that was what happened.

He remembered laying a hand on the wall of his cell, the opposite side he knew to be Valerie's, pretending he could feel her breaths, her life. He dedicated his own existence to her from then on.

The day after he realised that she was dead, was the day he had escaped.

Every day, he thanked her for her bravery and said that he loved her too, as she said she loved him in the letter. Every one day he made a 'scientist' of Lark-Hill pay for their crimes, he would offer a candle to this room.

He never entered that shrine or her cell with his mask on. So there he stood without it, quite sure that Evey would not find him.  
She had been meaning to escape. And if he were to be honest, the notion of it hurt but a little.

It wasn't until he found the piece of paper she had been kneading, that he realised that. It was Gordon Deitrich's address and he smiled at the coincidence.

_Coincidence_, thought he, _I think NOT_!

Who had said those infamous words, anyway? Were they said by someone of importance or were they not? Was it perhaps more like, 'Elementary, my dear Watson', which was never, EVER said by Sherlock Holmes in any of Sir Conan Doyle's original works.

Anyway, one thing lead to the next and he wondered how long it would take for the government to start to panic, how long it would take for Miles to realise that he had become a key component in its crumbling, Miles; who had been talking about Mr Deitrich just a few weeks back.

V sat down on his couch, his mask set firmly back on his face and tried to read but could not get past the first line when he heard the small click of Evey's door being opened and she came wondering up to greet him quite curtly and suddenly offered up her own story. How her mother died, how her father died, how her brother died – each incident connected to the government, a powerful family, it sounded like. Powerful by means of belief and morals; her mother as only a mother can be, her father being the sheer force of what it meant to be a revolutionary. He liked them.

"So there you have it," she finished, "I wish I was like them, but I'm not. I wish I wasn't scared all the time, but I am…so, if there's anything I could do to help make the world right; _please_ let me know,"

And so she opened the door to opportunity although, if he played his cards right and dealt with the consequences gently; Carpe Diem would apply to him too. He might just be able to show Evey she was far stronger than she believed herself to be as well.

Miles popped back into his head as the wheels began to turn; not quite the spanner in the works but a man he wondered about all the same,

"As you wish."

OoOoOoO

Miles was in a sea of people; people who stood silent and obedient at Chancellor Sutler's first speech of the election period. It was nothing like he remembered; he thought they had been cheering and he with them. But now they stood as still as statues and as quiet as mice. Some faces he recognised, some he didn't.

The Chancellor was roaring at them, promising them order and peace and revolution – Creedy grinning in the shadows beside him, Finch grimacing beside _him_; the army marching past with flags in a manner which resembled Nazism. Frighteningly unreal and yet it was so.

When he had finished his speech and Miles was properly unsettled, the Chancellor threw out his arms and yelled,

"NOW KNEEL BEFORE YOUR NEW ENGLAND!"

And like that, unanimously, the masses knelt; some less obliging than others. Finch knelt grudgingly while Creedy knelt in one smooth movement, the grin still plastered on his face. But Miles would not, though his knees buckled, rattling beneath his weight. He locked eyes with Finch who urged him to kneel while feeling a presence – a man in a Guy Fawkse mask, be it V or not – stood without any hint of yielding.

Torn between the two sides, Miles struggled to make a decision that was his own and in his despair and to his horror, he felt himself begin to sink. Sink as if weights were connected to his knees and then he hit the tar gravel, his trousers soaking through and his hands dirtied from the sludge…

Miles jolted upright, breathing hard and fast; a cold sweat drenching his body, his sodden hair sticking to his sticky face.  
He opened a curtain and a window and felt the cool air wash over him, blowing the dream away although the rattled indecision still rang in his bones. He waited five minutes, summer time was creeping up on him and it was getting lighter earlier. His alarm was set to go off any moment and the sun was to make a scheduled appearance at 7 o'clock that morning.

It had been two weeks since he'd seen V, two weeks he'd managed to avoid Creedy and two weeks in which he'd seen Gordon Deitrich three times. But the man was as unyielding as the figure in his dream and each time Miles was forced to leave his house with a fear of having to pay the price of failure.

As compensation, Miles had been sending in trickles of information but not enough to set the wheels in motion…information meant to ease the pain should he be violently confronted which he felt was becoming increasingly possible as he grew wearier of the fact that someone was following him.  
He had yet, however, to make contact with the coroner. He had been drawn into other more pressing matters but V had lodged the idea so heavily in his mind that it would be blasphemous not to go and see her.

He rolled out of bed just as his alarm went off and in a particular flurry of his own revolution; Miles picked it up and threw at the wall. It slammed and clattered to the floor, the alarm dying like an injured animal and black plastic scattered across the room.  
Looking at it there, broken and irreparable, he regretted it. He could have at least thrown something a little less practical but it was the heat of the moment. Testing himself to see if he could veer from the norm and fight back against something that irritated the core of his being. An alarm clock would have been a small feat if he didn't feel like an idiot for not thinking better of it. He needed it for the mornings or otherwise, with his current state of mind, he'd never get up.

But something struck him about the manner in which it fell apart. Kneeling down to gather the pieces, Miles couldn't help but notice the way in which it was put together – for all its simplicity, his little radio alarm clock was made up of many varying types of smaller, more complex gadgets holding bits and bobs together which enabled it to receive sound and song and broadcasts from somewhere strictly unknown - much like their little government. How easily it had broken under sheer force of will…and a wall.

Miles cleared it all in the moments following his musings; cleared it up, had a shower, combed his hair…the usual morning routine on autopilot before heading out.  
He was heading to Finch's office when one of his team called him out,

"Mr Miles!"

He turned; it was someone he wasn't really familiar with – Loney, if he remembered correctly, Mr Jonathan Loney. Loney was a short man, but lean and seemingly well-muscled, faster than Miles and younger – still naïve. He still had that heady scent of belief in the current vox populi.

"Mr Loney, I was on my way to the office,"

"Wrong office it would seem, Mr Creedy's calling us in, didn't you get the message?"

Of course he had, but he was intending to give it a miss by 'accident',

"I did not," Miles feigned surprise, even going as far as to check his mobile for messages,

"Creedy sounds angry, Sutler's called him in for an immediate rebuke. Says too many prominent party members are being murdered without a follow up,"

Miles frowned,

"So far there's only been one,"

"Look at the paper," Loney slapped the morning paper into Miles' chest and he took it with an unappreciative scowl, reading the head line,

"Terrorist Crashes a Second Party," a picture of someone he recognised beside it, accompanied by the name he wouldn't have remembered but they were one of the scientists at Lark-Hill. V for Vendetta.

"Only two," Miles corrected himself, "So what?"

"Careful," Loney looked about cautiously, "You never know who's listening, but look at the back. It's a small paragraph but my guess is people are beginning to see potential in this guy – the Chancellor's getting worried,"

Miles flipped the paper over and there, sure enough, was an uncensored report from the Daily Mail on a riot that had broken out in Belfast…  
He frowned again,

"Whoever wrote this is going to be in serious trouble,"

"Got 'em already," Loney said proudly making Miles look up, shocked, "Yeah, Sutler hopped on the phone the moment he read the paper and told Creedy to do something. 40 minutes was all it took. Guy's a dead man, me thinks,"

Miles looked down again but found no name,

"How did they know who wrote it?"

"Don't know the answer to that, mate, sorry," Loney shrugged, "Either way, we're being called in. Finch'll have to wait, Creedy's getting all the king's men together and I reckon it's 'cause we're going to get lectured on a new routine. Prepare for potential lock down,"

He hoped not, this was a small paragraph and had no implied relevance of the riot to V; it was just a piece of news. Sutler was getting paranoid…feeling vulnerable under the spot light of a man who was presenting knew ideals to a nation locked in an old fashioned regime in the world's largest quarantine zone.

He was about to say something more when none other than Finch arrived at their side, Loney nodded, said a curt,

"Sir," and then headed off, "See you in a few, Mr Miles,"

To which Miles responded with a nod before turning to Finch, Dominic arriving just behind him,

"Alright," he greeted but Miles didn't say much to him other than offering a small smile,

"Where are you off to now, Mr Miles?" Asked Finch, his tired, stoic features showing some urgency in their crinkled crevices,

"Been called into a meeting with Creedy; have you seen this?" He waved the paper at Finch. Dominic nodded with a look that suggested that he was perfectly aware of the absurdity. Finch however, responded more directly,

"I have, Bull shit what Creedy's doing. But I need to know if you've found anything more on V,"

Miles shook his head,

"No, why?"

"I've got an email from William Rookwood, he's a man that was connected to Three Waters _and _Lark-Hill, someone who was around when Creedy first started black-bagging everyone. He went missing after the explosion at Lark-Hill and as it turns out, I got an email from him a day or so before we discovered this. He says he has the truth,"

"About Lark-Hill?"

"Yep, interested in hearing a story?"

Miles thought a moment, before shaking his head,

"I've got to get to Creedy, if I get too much information; _I'll_ be black-bagged,"

"Alright, well I'll keep you informed. Dominic's got a friend inside the Finger, another useful contact, so don't worry, you're not a soul dependant,"

Miles had already started away from Finch, forgetting what he had wanted to say,

"I'm so very glad, Inspector."

He rolled and unrolled and rerolled the paper in his hands over and over, whether from nervous disposition or general distraction, he didn't know – it seemed it was becoming increasingly difficult to differentiate between his feelings. He shoved the paper into a bin just before entering the building that contained Creedy's lair.  
The door was slightly ajar and he could hear Creedy's loud, stern voice demanding the attention of all present. He managed to creep in without drawing too much attention and left the door as was, with intention of having it as if no one entered or left.

"I want twenty men between each Zone," he was saying, "We keep close watch on EVERYTHING, and everyone and we take action against all those out after curfew. I won't have Chancellor Sutler breathing down my neck for anymore follies. The riot in Belfast is NOT too reach London and I assure you, if you do as instructed and do it well, it won't. The Daily Mail is now under super-surveillance -since we have no ears, we can only watch. And take note of Mr Chester,"

Creedy's eye found Miles easily enough upon the mentioning of his old friend,

"Any of you who do not comply will meet the same fate and pay the same price for being in league with the terrorist, are we clear?"

The room filled up with 'Yes, Sir' and then was silenced as people began to leave again,

"Mr Miles, before you go," Miles stopped and turned, bracing against the surge of people trying to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere of the office, "I'd like to talk to you about something,"

Miles didn't move forward towards Creedy to heed him but he didn't have too as Creedy spared him the liberty.

"You don't seem to be making any progress on Mr Deitrich," said he as he levelled out with Mr Miles, looking him dead in the eye without blinking.  
Miles looked straight back but allowed himself to look around, away from Creedy to gather his thoughts. Clearly his diversion of information wasn't working,

"He's steadfast," was all he could come with. Creedy snorted coldly, his face not as amused as his little laugh implied him to be,

"Try a little harder, Miles, you're not on the Chancellor's list of favourites, nor are you on mine. In fact, you're on the down and out list – a dangerous place to be," he made that noise with his lip, as if pitying Miles sarcastically.

"I wasn't aware that that was the objective of my job, Mr Creedy, Sir," Miles snarled and with that, Creedy's amusement dissipated,

"Be careful, Mr Miles because not only that, a little bird told me that you are sharing hints and hunches with Mr Finch?"

Miles froze, how did he know that?

Creedy saw his panic and smiled maliciously,

"So it's true, is it? What are you not telling me, Mr Miles?"

Miles shook his head,

"Nothing I haven't told you,"

"Really? Mr Miles, I have received just about _nothing_ from you meanwhile you seem to be spending an awful lot of time with Finch, might I add that this terrorist of ours has a rather good understanding of the interlink and the Chancellor is entertaining the idea of an informer…top secret, I might add but if anything else happens, he might just call it out,"

"Are _you_ calling me out?"

"Not you; Finch. Either way, it puts you in a dangerous position, doesn't it?"

"Does Finch know where he stands?" Miles straightened, trying to appear unaffected.

"No, like I said, top secret…for now," Creedy cocked his head, "Ireland is not a country in favour of England,"

"Ireland…Finch isn't Irish,"

"But he had ancestry, what a terrible thing England did to Ireland,"

Miles held his tongue, what could he say that wouldn't sound like he was defending Finch. He _was_ in a dangerous position and Creedy was making it very clear that he was on the hunt to bring down whoever hinted at involvement.

"So, Mr Miles," Creedy continued as per normal, "Are you sure, you're giving me everything?"

Miles felt himself folding, the dream coming back to him – he was about to do just that, give everything despite the irrelevance of some of it but something caught his eye; a red light blinking in the corner of the room. Miles felt himself freeze,

"Where is the Eye based?" he asked abruptly,

"What?" Creedy recoiled, pulling his chin into his neck. Miles marched past him to the corner, where the light was blinking. It had just started, activated only minutes ago which meant that someone had been watching and waiting and activated it outside of the room…a bomb for sure, 30 seconds to go.

"Is the Eye in here?" Miles looked up at Creedy as the man arrived by his side. Creedy then, without answering, shot to his desk, yanked open his drawer, pulled out a knife and shoved it into Miles' hand,

"Cut it!"

Miles looked down at the knife,

"Last time we tried, it only decreased the time,"

"Do it any way!"

"Sir, is this or is this not where the Eye is?!"

"CUT IT, MILES!"

Miles cut it and instead of decreasing the time and instead of stopping it altogether – the action did nothing. Creedy was out of the office before Miles even registered what had happened.

10, 9, 8, 7…

Miles couldn't fathom it; how had V managed to pull this off?! How was it possible –

6, 5, 4…

He hadn't spoken to Deitrich about how he felt! He hadn't spoken to the Coroner!

3, 2…

V hadn't given him a chance!

1…

OoOoOoOoO

The explosion almost made Finch fall out of his chair; Dominic spun around, leaning on the desk as the sky went a bright orange, smoked out the area and then cleared followed by the sounds of sirens as the police leapt into action.

"Where was that, Dominic?" Finch asked without looking back,

"Uh…" Dominic stuttered, stunned, "Seems to be near the..."

He trailed off and Finch rolled his eyes, preparing for the worst as he turned, following the line of smoke,

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, "The office of the Eye,"

Finch and Dominic were then screeching through the streets of London, forced to slow as the waves of people fleeing the bomb area met them near Regents Street. They were dirtied by the ash and debris, rubble scattered out in a 400m radius and only the top half of the building was blown. So the idea was clearly, and specifically, to take out the governments Eyes.

Finch froze upon seeing the devastation. So, the government was now, effectively, deaf and blind. What was left, the streets were still on patrol, they still had the Nose, the Finger's and the Shadow but what were they with regards to a regime that operated on imposition of privacy.

He felt disgusted with himself for feeling so worried about that fact.  
No, he had nothing to worry about! Without these things, the government would only double up on the visual on the street if they weren't doing that already and the country would know that.

Creedy wondered up to him, as if he were unaffected, his hands casually in his pockets,

"Oh dear," he uttered provocatively, "What happened, Mr Finch?"

But Finch wouldn't fall for it,

"I don't know, Mr Creedy, the sky went orange behind my back. Where were you?"

Creedy just looked at him, refusing him an answer which made Finch question Creedy's efficiency for the first time.

"What do you intend to tell the public this time?" he tried instead,

"The Chancellor will be calling shortly I'm sure, we'll have a meeting later, I presume. I've called Dascomb and he's busy already."

"Oh…" Finch pouted with raised eyebrows, "Hope so,"

Creedy said nothing then and walked away, leaving Finch to deal with the mess before he remembered,  
"Mr Creedy,"

Creedy turned,

"Where is Mr Miles?"

"Why? Have you more information to swap over?" and on he walked.

Finch looked back at the building, the feeling of dread building in him slowly but surely.

"Inspector!" Dominic ran over, his hair dishevelled, "Inspector, we have a body,"

OoOoOoO

V grimaced behind the solace of his mask, having just seen the headlines on the television. Someone was dead though they knew not who yet.  
It wouldn't be long till they did but that wasn't his intention. He thought his entire set up was ingenious until this moment; he'd even told the manager of the bank in Regents Street to make sure everyone was out – a note of course, merely reading "Hit Fire Alarm at 10.45am. V"

The poor bastard must have tried to disarm the bomb himself – alas.  
Evey wasn't going to take it well.

"Hmm…" he uttered. Just then, he heard quick, bare-feet foot-steps charging through the gallery.

"V?!"

She sounded angry, a good couple of weeks of living with him, learning his habits and his genteel mannerisms taught her that she was safe in his house and that with her; he was but a man in a mask and would take her rages with calm, quiet, grace. He rose and stood to face the door with his hands clasped in front of him.

She charged in and before he could say anything, before he could use his quick deviances; mainly out of un-expectation, V was struck by Evey's left hand and by God, he stumbled.


	6. Chapter 6

**So obviously, I fibbed. I find myself sticking to the movie verse more than the comic though the comic has its time every once in a while.**

* * *

The force with which Evey had slapped him had dislodged his mask making his one hand fly to the aid of his vulnerability while he was taking an awkward misstep, throwing him off balance.  
The other hand flew out to grab anything that would act as a buffer to evade the fall – in this particular case, the wheelie, swivel chair everybody loved and still owned.  
Though that too worked to his disadvantage and it turned away from him, though luckily he fell into the chair itself and then as a follow up, he improvised and kicked away, wheeling away to the darker side of the room where he could re-adjust his mask in private.  
All in all, it was a whirl of unfortunate events as a result of something unexpected that caused this strange, slightly comical piece of theatre. The slap itself didn't harm him at all.

Once having adjusted the mask accordingly, he turned with an inclination to exclaim perplexity, something like "Good heavens, Evey!" but that was lost to him when he saw the way she stood.  
Her hand lay limp and uncomfortably at her side; red and quivering, the consequence of rage besting common sense. His mask was not plastic, after all. It was cold, hard enamel and she had slapped him hard enough for it to slide out of place; quite a feat. He found himself moving towards her, though, reaching out,

"Evey, your hand!"

But she took an elongated step away from him, making him rethink. It was completely out of character to respond in such a manner, he barely laid a fingertip upon her since having carried her to his home all those nights ago.

"I'm sorry," said he with a touch of shame, bowing his head,

"For my hand or for killing someone?"

"Both, in fact," he looked up to gaze into her tear tinged eyes, the pain was obvious though she countered it admirably, "Death wasn't my intention, I assure you, nor was your hand,"

"You assure me not!" both hands flew out in dismay, "It was a damn bomb, death was inevitable! Are you really this blasé? This careless?!"

"No, definitely not," he tried but she wouldn't let him continue,

"This isn't just your life you're playing with now, it's mine too!"

Something to which he might have responded with by reminding her that _she_ had come to _his_ aid too and thus lead her here but something told him that it would be a bad move on his part.

"I know that, but Evey, despite me not having any intention whatsoever, of death to anyone; people dying in a time of revolution is as necessary as death is to life in general. The only difference is that one now has to differentiate between the sort of people involved in revolutionising a country; the ones who mean to harm and those who don't."

She didn't say anything for a moment before answering quietly,  
"That man was innocent,"

"Are you so certain?"

"Until proven otherwise, yes!" Her voice on the rise, "Are you so sure that he wasn't?"

V went silent a moment, processing her point.

"You're the revolutionary who appears to be attempting to be an anarchist – you have to be careful! You'll land up on the wrong side of the line you just described."

Was she truly lecturing him on his own line of work…? He was stupefied, but again, she had a point. She then allowed herself to breathe, the red hue that had violently erupted in her cheeks disappearing quietly as she glanced down, rant over, at her still shaking hand,

"Ow," she said flatly, recognising the pain her hand had been desperately trying to alert her too.

"Are you alright?" he asked, trying to ease the tension,

"Yeah," she replied equally as flatly. She gestured to the chair and his cheek as an indicator of his momentary loss of control and with a small smile, for that too was way out of character, offered up her own apology, "Sorry,"

"Not at all, I believe I must have been quite deserving of it."

She sighed,

"Oh, hell yeah," and turned away, leaving him to dwell on his thoughts. But he worried; people died yes but…V, ironically, did not see himself as a murderer, an anarchist or a terrorist. He was a freedom fighter; a revolutionary by default for the circumstances had called upon it.  
The people that died were the people that did him, Valerie and the nation wrong – a good deal wrong and all he intended to do was ensure they got their comeuppance and then he'd be free of anger and the world free of the oppressors. He _did_ care; they had not taken his integrity, as Valerie had warned him to hold onto it.

So he exited the room and walked calmly into the lounge where, much to his subtle discomfort, Evey sat attempting a book,

"Ah, Dickons,"

"Yup," she didn't look up. He sighed; alright fine, she wasn't a talker.

"I'm going to turn the television on, if you don't mind. I need to hear the news,"

"Yup,"

He raised what was left of an eyebrow at her behind his mask, before taking a seat beside her; aware of how she had pulled her feet away from him – not so subtly either - in an effort to show her continual contempt. He looked at her, down at her feet and back up but she refused to meet his glance and so what else was there to do?

He turned on the television, put the news on and waited for more information.  
It was a whole hour before they said anything else and when they did, it was brief; the man was identified as a common citizen but V recognised the picture and smirked.  
Not what he had intended for the man and how sly they were to use an unknown party member to pose as a common people to strike fear into the hearts of many.  
How very sly indeed.

He turned his head to look at Evey, who was now looking back at him in horror,  
"And now you laugh?"

"Now I laugh but hush now, before you continue on your ranting, let me explain. He's not an average citizen. His name his Mr Conrad Heger, he was head of Visual-Surveillance and someone I have history with."

"That's not what the reporter's saying, V,"

"Oh, Evey, you know the BTN better than I do, having worked there. Did you not say just the other night that that woman blinks a lot when she lies?"

Evey nodded slowly in affirmation, prompting V to gesture to the television,

"Well…"

She looked but not for long, knowing he was right already,

"Someone on your hit list then,"

"You could say that,"

"How many more are left?"

"Three, I believe," he paused, taking in her petite frame and young face, an idea suddenly forming; "I might need you quite soon, if your offer still stands?"

"Yes…" she nodded hesitantly, "Of course,"

OoOoOoOoO

Miles had leapt back from the bomb as a last resort the moment it hit 00:00:00. He flew back into the desk, he had leapt so far but this bomb didn't go off though he heard the muffled explosion elsewhere.  
He scrambled to his feet, frazzled and panicked. Ridiculously smart, terrifyingly deadly – V had managed to play silly-buggers with the likes of Creedy, hiding a decoy detonator in his office, the bomb itself somewhere else (he had an idea of where) and then having the actual detonator with himself, perhaps? Had he essentially divided the bomb into three parts? Impossible!

He stormed outside and skidded to a halt upon seeing the smoke and rubble rising in the distance. He then felt like a man on the run, bolting away from the catastrophe, a sudden need to find out exactly who V was having sprung on him, where his intelligence came from, where this enigmatic, masked figure came from – or was _coming_ from. The coroner didn't work far from where he was then, one or two blocks maybe in Richmond Road.  
He had narrowly avoided giving Creedy every piece of information he had, avoided folding under his miniature interrogation and he had no intention of waiting for his return – or finding him to give it to him but his time was running short now.

He arrived, out of breath and shaking slightly, borderline hysterical. He gathered and composed himself before calmly knocking on the door. An aged but handsome face opened it, fatigued eyes widening in surprise, but he had barged in, throwing politeness to the wind before she could ask who he was,

"Who the FUCK is this man 'V'?" he demanded,

"I beg your pardon?" she exclaimed, shocked, more than anything else,

"All you people know him!" Miles sneered, "He's specific in his killings! You were all at Lark Hill! Who is he?!"

Miles knew not where his aggression came from but he figured that if she was on V's 'to do' list then she was well deserving of it and so he pulled his gun on her.

"How do you know who I am? How do you know I know him?" she asked, shutting the door quietly and taking a seat,

"Governmental archives," he replied, steadfast, his gun still pointing at her,

"I changed my name,"

Miles was almost stumped but then he remembered the photo he found. That was how he recognised her, looking at her now, she was the woman standing awfully close to Prothero.

"Prothero had a photo taken during his Lark Hill days; you were tucked quite neatly beneath his arm, there," his suggestion was not subtle and did not go unnoticed but she _did_ brush it off,

"Ah yes, he was an overly affectionate man,"

"How. Do. You. Know. Him." He demanded.

"He was part of voluntary governmental experimentations,"

"Batch 5, is it?" Miles took a step forward, urging the coroner to get the hell on with telling him but she wasn't intimidated by him in the slightest. Her eyes seemed to glaze over as memory caught up with her.

"It's a ghost I've long since been waiting to haunting to me,"

"What is it?"

She looked up at him hesitantly, unwilling but then she seemed to slump submissively; breaking under the burden of guilt. Sighing; she began,

"We wanted a 'pure' country; one without corruption of blacks, Jews, counter-cultures, anything, so we decided to attempt to create a super-soldier…I suppose, for lack of a better description. We took unfavourable people; homosexuals, the lot – made them our test subjects and injected them with all sorts of things – all in the name of science. Who would turn out right, who wouldn't and they dropped like flies…  
But so many people going missing needed an explanation, yes? So we devised a story; Three Waters. Attack the country with a virus most lethal and destructive enough to scare people into trusting us with what we were doing. To believe these disappearances to be voluntary,"

She dared a glance up at Miles but he wasn't looking at her. He was gazing out the window, feeling no anger for he wasn't and he had no surprise for he wasn't; only a gentle undertow of his own guilt that came and went in steady waves.

"There was a list of names in the subject archives at Lark-Hill, was he –"

"Subject archives," she snorted despairingly, "A list of pseudonyms, a cover against those who went looking. Those who are like you,"

Miles met her gaze briefly before returning his attention to the outside world, "the original poster was Strength through Purity, Purity through Faith. Yes, 'Volunteers'."

88888

The word was poison on Delia Surridge's lips; it was a God awful lie,

"Nobody exists anymore," she continued, "We took everything from them – people are easier to reason with when they don't exist to the world."

She couldn't meet his eyes then, the shame was too much,

"That's foul," he whispered, distressed,

"Isn't it?"

She remembered everything about Lark Hill, how naïvely she believed that what she was doing was the right thing. How she had so easily dismissed her 'subjects' as nothing short of puppets, giant blobs of flesh with a lack of intelligence or any sort of purpose.  
She remembered how they wouldn't look at her when she injected them and how she hated them for being so pathetic.  
She remembered 'V', as he called himself, too. He was the key to their sudden revelation; he was thriving on the drugs they gave him. He was constantly agonised by them and each day she injected him, she feared that very day to be his last and yet he wound up at her needle point the very next, ready. She even remembered the day he looked at her, really looked at her, dead in the eyes as she injected him. His was a hard and steady gaze, a piercing stare that made her skin tingle when he studied her.

She remembered feeling astounded by the way his body changed; he was not a bulky man at all when he had first arrived. He was a skinny soul whom she thought would die within the first week of testing but he endured.  
Standing before her _6_ weeks later, he'd grown. His arms were stronger, well formed by lean muscle and his heart pumped almost half the speed the average human heart beats per minute. A rate at which, medically, he would have been in critical condition but his body thrived on that account. His blood flowed through his veins as steadily and normally as any man. Physical labour meant his heart rate would increase to exactly the average human rate – 70+.

He was incredibly fit.  
They found anomalies in his blood upon testing, and verily, he held the cure to the Three Water's virus too. He was a break through! She couldn't believe how excited she had been.  
When they sat him down to tell him this, he responded favourably in a voice as smooth as silk and she noticed how formally he suddenly spoke, his brain functions appeared to have doubled too – showing signs of intelligence that surpassed the likes of people like Einstein and Mozart and, and, and.

Either way, he listened to their suggestions and then Delia was told to take an amnesia test. It was supposed to be taken every week as they realised that various subjects started forgetting certain things.

She pulled out her clip board and pen and got herself ready, putting on her best doctor- doctor pose at which he had cocked his head in bemusement.

"_Subject 5, what is your name?"_

"_Tom Luker,"_

"_Where are you from?"_

"_Brixton,"_

"_How old are you?"_

"_48,"_

_All was well._

"_Subject 5, what is your name?"_

"_Jonathon Reah,"_

"_Where are you from?"_

"_Birmingham,"_

"_How old are you?"_

"_21,"_

_Different._

"_Subject 5, what is your name?"_

"_Valerie,"_

"_Where are you from?"_

"_Nottingham,"_

"_How old are you?"_

"_35,"_

He was changing names every week she asked until at last she sat down and ran through all the names he had given her. To her horror, he was listing her subjects, their ages and where they came from all down to a T. Worst of all, written beside those names was the awful word, 'deceased'.

"It was the most awful experience I'd ever had up until then. It was so haunting." She uttered. By this stage, Miles had put his gun away and had sat down too, gazing at her intently, taking in everything she said.

"There came a point when I sat down before him and asked him without my clip board, without any doctoral play-things, and asked him as only I could, 'who are you, really?'"

_She remembered how she saw his spirit break briefly, as he tried to hold back tears – the one piece of humanity they could never take from him,_

"_I don't know," he answered,_

"_Where were you born?"_

"_I don't know,"_

"_How old are you?"_

"_I don't know,"_

"_Would you like me to tell you?"_

"…_no,"_

Miles started,

"He said 'no'?"

"I was shocked too, believe me. I can't imagine what it must be like to forget who you are,"

"Yeah…I…" there was nothing to say to that really. Delia still recalled wondering down the cell hall in the middle of the night, checking to see who was alive and who wasn't. She remembered those eyes looking at her from out the dark, caught in the one stream of light conveniently cast in a manner that showed _only_ his eyes.  
The rest of his face was in shadow. He didn't look away when she checked on him like the others did but she could see the outline of his sharp, unconventional features; he was not a good looking man by any normal standards, nor was he ugly. He was cast perfectly in between where one was free to make their own assumptions.

"So…what was his name?"

Delia raised her eyebrows,

"Does it matter? How would you catch a man who doesn't know he is himself? Knowing his name won't help you catch him,"

Miles hesitated under weary gaze of Dr Surridge,

"If," she implored, "that is what you would like to do…"

Miles countered her imploration,

"You don't, do you?"

"Want to catch him…no, not really,"

"So this is all for redemption. Letting him get away with it will satisfy you?"

"I will be redeemed when we meet again, Mr…"

"Miles," he answered quietly, realising what was happening, "Benjamin Miles."

"Mr Miles," she smiled sadly again, "Yes, like I said, it's a ghost that's been long since waiting to haunt me,"

"It _has_ been haunting you,"

"I've been haunting myself,"

Miles bowed his head, a gesture of his forgiveness on V's behalf to her which he wasn't sure if she accepted or even understood but this harrowing story was enough for now,

"So his intelligence, his bomb making, his re-wiring of the audio-surveillance – he's pretty brilliant with the technical stuff."

"Yes," she nodded, "Oh yes; beautifully musical – I've always admired Tchaikovsky. He liked gardening! That was how he got out; we let him grow crops for the government upon his request and slyly snuck gardening chemicals into his cell, made a bomb, blew up our site and the rest his history. But, back to original point, yes, he's a technical genius. Our experiments take shameful credit for that. And the government is looking to the sky,"

"Should they not?" Miles frowned,

"He's still just a man, he can't fly," she looked astounded at his stupidity which Miles called general logic since the tubes were closed off but it brought back that old question. How was he going to do it? And he found that perhaps he was right.

"Thank you, Dr Surridge," said he, getting up, returning to reality, the outside world suddenly louder and more imposing. He opened the door for departure but was momentarily paused by Surridge,

"Will you tell them? Now that you know that I know, now that you know he'll be coming for me, now that you know everything,"

Miles stilled, thinking,

"Do you want me too?"

"No," she said, "But do what you think is best,"

Miles shut the door and left. He felt like a ghost as he wafted back out into the cool, autumn air. He found himself floating in a haze towards the central tube line that went via Bank, Tower Bridge and Parliament and there he found a coffee shop to sit in and waited for the darkness.

* * *

**Cheers for reading :) You lot may not like to review too much but I appreciate the fact that you are all there :) So I'm kinda thinking the story isn't too bad. Peace ;) P.s Oh and excuse any errors, I don't show this to anyone else so I edit this myself. I can be pretty awful at editing so my most humble apologies. **


	7. Chapter 7

So V was worrying about being found out for nothing. They came so close to finding out who this ghost was only to find they were looking into nothing and V was carried along with them. Which, in a sense made Miles feel better for it was a human mistake; V panicked and took action. Miles sat in the coffee shop with an untouched cappuccino below sinking froth sitting in the centre of the table. His fingers drummed atop the surface of their own accord as he watched the sun duck down in the early hours of the evening; winter was coming. It started getting dark around 5 these days.

One of the waitresses came over after Miles had been sitting there for over an hour,

"Sir?" she asked cautiously. Miles was pulled from his thoughts, surprised to find relief in letting his face relax. He must have looked like man full of angst with his frown so set in its way. He didn't respond but merely looked up,

"You haven't drank an inch of that, is there something wrong? Should I make another?"

The girl was young, she looked unsure and innocent. Miles glanced down at his drink, having completely forgotten about it,

"Oh…Lord, I forgot I had it. Uh…yes, I'm sorry; it must be cold by now. Would you mind making me another? I'll pay for it," he tried to make light the conversation but her smile told him she was weary of him and to be honest he was weary of himself. Working for the government was rough – made the employees rougher. Miles was timid, but he wasn't a walk in the park.  
You could see these things about the edges, the ounce of transparency shown for the sake of dominance – the 'I'm playing nice but know that if you cross me I'll deal with you accordingly' threat laid bare even if you were a secret government official.

"Yeah, sure, no problem," she answered earnestly, picking the cold cappuccino up and removing it.

As she moved away, Miles let his eyes swoop the length of her young body, her slender frame reminding him of Evey Hammond, going full circle to remind him of the task at hand.

A group of youths from the school opposite the Thames trolled past, loud and unassuming; they were then followed by a man in a suite. It was the end of the work day, all anybody wanted to do was go home and relax. Nobody would care about why a man was trying to get into the underground and if he went any later, Fingermen would be swarming the streets.

"Better go now then," he mused to himself, his eyes drifting away from the girl to outside and then turning back,

"You know what?" he said, the girl looking up at him, just about to add more coffee to the grinder, "Don't worry about it. Thanks anyway,"

She nodded, slightly baffled and he could feel her eyes on him as he walked out. It was relatively dark by then; so Miles estimated himself to be alright although one could never be too careful… especially having realised that it must be Creedy who had been having him followed around.

He walked along the Thames with purpose, the wind chilling his face as he did so until he reached the subway stairs with a wonky sign, leading to the gates which blocked him at the bottom. He could just see past hew, the cobwebbed innards of what was now a concrete cave; what was left of the underground.

He rattled the gate gently to test its stability which it proved to be quite so, so he abandoned the head on plan and went about trying to find the exit which the officials used; the secret door that lead directly onto platforms and into offices.  
It didn't take him long, though. It was tucked away down a nearby ally that read 'Authorised Personal Only'. He pressed down the door handle and pushed – to no avail. He wasn't quite sure why he thought that would work but anyway. He looked about to see if anyone was watching before bracing himself against the wall behind him and placing one foot on the door and proceeded to push again. His face contorted into one of an agonised athlete, pushing hard against something that wasn't moving, nor would it ever. He slumped and cursed, out of breath and sore, his leg muscle screaming in pain.

"God-damn it, Benjamin, you skinny bastard," he muttered, but he was determined. He straightened up and looked around again, going as far as to run to the end of the ally to see if any passers-by were near enough to hear what was to come, looked up to make sure there were no windows and then repositioned himself.

He figured he had more than one shot but he didn't want to push it so he worked on the notion that if one didn't work, he'd leave it and try again some other time which he didn't want to do…so this was it.

"Ok" he breathed, "1…2…3!"

On 3, he kicked with all his might, hearing the lock crack and break, the door swung open violently, clanging against the wall behind it making Miles flinch.  
He paused before entering, making sure no one heard before he took a ginger step inside. It was pitch black and the dust from the door made him sneeze. It was too dark to see clearly so he pulled his phone from his pocket and used it as a light – not completely useless but annoying as it only lit up about a foot in front of him.

The air was musky and smelled of old brick and earth, water dripped from old pipes and wires sparked in the darkness. Miles wasn't expecting to suddenly feel afraid; he'd never known a fear of the dark. He heard little pitter-patters of mice and rats as they fled his approach, his own steps of course were deafening as they echoed down the length of the station. He found the broken escalators that lead to the tracks and began to descend carefully, taking a few steps forward before stopping at the bottom with his heart in his mouth.

Someone was in there with him. But how did they get in? There was a gentle tap of a shoe on the ground, not unlike when someone comes to halt after a last step, which alerted him to this presence.  
As he stood, he became more and more aware of more than just one person and with his light, Miles was a sitting duck ergo, he turned it off.

He took a step forward and another, aware that something had moved up behind him and then….

And then he was aware of someone in front of him and what could he do?

Miles accelerated, throwing his weight forward with his fist taking the lead.  
He connected, hard with what he suspected to be the nose of one of his assailants, feeling it break beneath his knuckle making whoever it was blanch back, screaming in pain. But that was the only plan he had.  
All he could do then was just flail and make life difficult as suddenly, what felt like, a thousand hands descended upon him. He threw kicks and punches and head butts, every now and then connecting with someone as they grunted and released him, but someone got a good one in and Miles was back-handed across his face. In his temporary stupor, someone grabbed his arms and yanked him back, his shoulders burning; a blow to the back of his knees had him buckle and fall, his knees bruising from the concrete. Another blow to the back of his head had him crashing to floor where he hit his left eye and then everything went black.

88888

Miles was drifting in between his dreams and reality, a voice he despised seeping into his brain making him all the more reluctant to come back to life.

"Wake up, Mr Miles," the voice sneered, "You can't sleep forever,"

"C'mone, mate, up you get," another voice, smoother, thicker but Miles couldn't bring himself to come round. His body felt bruised, broken and heavy; his memory was static and there was a strange white noise in his ears, "Wakey – wakey!"

Miles jolted awake, feeling suddenly more awake than he'd ever been in his whole life,

"Fucking hell!" he yelled as the cold water sank into his skin, his wet hair settling on his face,

"Welcome back, " Creedy sneered, his hands clasped neatly behind his back as he looked down at Miles whose arms were being held in place by two fingermen,

"Creedy," Miles spluttered, "What…?"

"I want the information you have, Mr Miles; I know you've got more than you let on,"

"I don't know anything," he countered breathlessly,

Creedy sighed before nodding at the two men either side of Miles. Suddenly he was hoisted roughly out of his seat and made to kneel down at the mercy of a sink filled with water, water that had ice blocks floating in it. Miles felt dread creeping up his spine,

"The Bishop is dead, Mr Miles, he died just today, so sad to have lost two prominent party members so tragically in one day. In one day! Mr Finch has been informed of his predicament too. So, know anything?"

"N..no," Miles shook his head, still looking down in terror at the water,

"No? Are you sure? Mr Miles, let me explain, that water temperature has been lowered down to minus three and that could cause some serious damage to any limb left in it for too long. Behind you is a tub and _that_ has been lowered to freezing, maybe a degree or two over; do you see what I'm getting at, Mr Miles?"

"You can't –"

"Kill you? No, I can't, I can't afford too but remember our little chat we had earlier? I can't kill you now but give it a few days and perhaps that would have changed. For now, though, I can make this awful for you. Put him in,"

Miles' face descended rapidly and the water hit him like knives, his face getting pierced in such a manner he thought his eyes would freeze over. He screamed beneath the surface and he screamed above it,

"Now, Mr Miles, what do you know?"

"I SWEAR I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!"

"Again,"

Miles was thrust back into the water, his face going numb, the pain subsiding, a bad sign. He was hoisted out, spluttering,

"PLEASE, dear GOD!"

"What did you find out, Mr Miles, it's so easy!" Creedy knelt next to him,

"Please, I don't – I don't know what I know, it's – it's just a frazzled amount of shit!"

"That'll do,"

"Please, l-let me go, I'll get all the information and I'll give it all to you!"

"No, give it to me now,"

Miles wanted too, he wanted to so badly but to his amazement, something prevented him from doing so. He looked over at Creedy despairingly to which Creedy responded with a disgusted face, he rose and indicated for him to be thrust in again. Miles screamed below the surface, screamed above, screamed below until at last Creedy lost interest and with a wave of his hand told them to simply let Miles tumble back into the tub behind him.

Miles fell back, screaming again as he entered the freezing water but his voice broke and it became more a screech of chalk along a blackboard but all that made it to the surface was an air bubble.  
His clothes weighed him down as he tried to fight to the surface, his legs numb and weak, unwilling to help him find the footing to heave himself out. He fumbled for what felt like hours before he finally grasped the edge of the tub and yanked himself up and over the edge, out of the water, crashing to the floor. Breathless, colder than the arctic, delirious; Miles stumbled up, thinking to remove his clothes but he only managed to shrug his coat off his shoulders before his legs gave out, followed by his consciousness.

OoOoOoOoO

"Good God!"

Benjamin Miles was a lean man, but he was heavier than V expected. He could only imagine what he must have looked like standing there at Gordon Deitrich's door, stooped under Mr Miles' weight. Quite the 'terrorist' he must have seemed.

V had seen everything; just about. He'd seen Miles snoop about the area as it was just after the murder of Father Lilliman. He'd seen his attackers get let in by Creedy a couple of doors down and then waited a few minutes to see them draw him out into some backlit shed.

They wouldn't kill him, V was sure of that so he resisted the urge to be the hero. He watched as Miles underwent the cold at Creedy's hand. Watched his torture and thus reassured himself of his humanity as he felt the furthest thing from indifference at the sight of the pain and anguish Mr Miles was going through as a consequence for with-holding information.  
Something he needed to find out about Evey, something she needed to find out about herself. Speaking of which, she had escaped. If one could call it that and he had half a mind to leave the priest for another day to go after her in pursuit but decided against it and then had the priest endure the cold hard wrath of both an anger harboured and pampered specifically for that night as well as the anger that came with betrayal, known or not, which stung. V still felt it.  
But…he had an idea of where she might end up. It was only a matter of time,

"Good evening," V tried a slight bow of his head in greeting as Mr Deitrich looked on, astounded at the circumstance, "I am aware that this is quite a surprise but I believe you know this man? He has just undergone a form of torture and is in need of some assistance and as I am no one to be giving such, I thought to bring him to you,"

Deitrich was still looking utterly abashed,

"Why?" was all he managed.

"I'm quite sure he'll be able to tell you himself quite soon, Mr Deitrich, now before either of us land up in any trouble, here he is,"

V hoisted him up and placed him in the arms of Mr Deitrich, relieved to be able to stand up straight again.

"Oh, and don't be alarmed if you have another visitor show up at your door this very fine evening," Deitrich just stared at him so V merely tipped his hat,

" Adieu," he concluded and left, disappearing into the night.

The plan and thus the day had, ultimately, been a success; the only thing that went wrong was Evey.

"_How do I look?"_

"_Like a child, Evey, perfectly innocent, beautifully childlike. Perfect."_

_He had cocked his head in satisfaction at her and then he proceeded to grimace at the thought of Father Lilliman's hands all over her – her as a child, all over a child. He felt his blood boil and his hate rise._

_And then he rolled in like a steam train, taking them all by surprise down at the Abbey –_

"_I'm sorry! I had too!"_

"_Evey!" _

_And then she was gone – his little voice in his head saying, "pursue or not to pursue?"_

_He wanted to, for the sake of knowing what would happen if he didn't._

She'd betrayed him and it hurt though, in a sense, if she had to be admired, it was brave.  
She had escaped from someone she knew to be a dangerous enemy in a most cunning manner – even if it was merely to evade torture and jail time from a government she feared more should they have caught her – and by all means, him. Still – something needed to be done.

Mr Miles on the other hand; Mr Miles, indeed! The night was not warm in the slightest and he'd been thrown into water V could easily see was twice/thrice/four times as cold as the air about him.

And yet, he endured, he abstained – he begged, he pleaded, he screamed but he endured and he abstained. Creedy wouldn't be done with him, though, that was for sure. That vile man would find another approach to break down Miles but perhaps in the pursuit of doing so, he'd only invoke his anger to a more pressing point. Miles appeared to be the red-button in the fire-alarm case.

V had done his best however, after the events of that day; all that could be done was to see what became of him – where his emotions would take him.

OoOoOoO

Miles felt himself shiver once – twice and then still, once, twice and then still – engrossed in warm, warm, blissful water and then he was hoisted out –

All of this was happening within a dream; aware of his being moved around, unable to figure out by whom or to where and unwilling to answer these questions. He was being looked after beautifully, and that was all he cared about.  
However, as warmth returned and past events came clear, memory cutting him deep, Miles' eyes snapped open. He frowned and sat up to find Deitrich looking over a news-paper at him.

Miles let out a rather awkward sound of surprise; somewhat one pitch higher than was the norm and gathered the blanket he was covered in up to his bare chest; suddenly aware that he was in Deitrich's home, on Deitrich's couch, in Deitrich's blanket without his clothes.

His face burned with realisation – knowing that the person carrying him around, warming him up and taking such good care of him was this kind faced, crooked nosed television presenter whom he had been corresponding with in a most professional manner. But, obviously, he had missed a beat and something had changed.

"Good evening, Mr Miles," said he with a quirked eyebrow, "And how are we feeling?"

Miles darted about the room, looking to find anything more interesting than Mr Deitrich, looking for anything that would keep his gaze averted.

"You look like a dear in head lights," he commented casually. That caught Miles' attention, and he met the older man's gaze with a sort of hurt defiance.  
Deitrich looked rather smug,

"I must say, you're not easy to manoeuvre and it would seem that you have friends in the most extraordinary places,"

Miles narrowed his eyes.

"Do you not remember a thing, my dear Benjamin?"

"I remember being really, effing cold for the longest time,"

"Ah yes, do you remember anything about being tortured?"

"How do you know that?" Miles gathered his feet to himself, next. Of course he remembered, he remembered everything, save the aftermath.

"Your friend, V, picked you up and dropped you off here,"

"My…m-my…uhm, I'm sorry?"

"Yes, like I said, friends in extraordinary places," Deitrich removed his glasses and placed the paper on the table before leaning forward, "How do you know him? Why were you being tortured? What information could a BTN crew member possibly have that would provoke Mr Creedy into catching him so brutally?"

"I don't have an answer to that just yet…"

Deitrich was about to press on but was interrupted by Miles' stomach growling in empty despair. Miles instinctively held it, uncomfortable and battling the last few strands of a fear as raw as uncooked meat – the fear that comes with the belief that you are well and truly about to meet your end.

Deitrich sighed, defeated, standing and making his way to his kitchen,

"I should have known that hunger would come knocking at my door, too. Eggs?"

"I actually, should be going…but thanks,"

Miles made to move, wrapping the blanket up around him and turning to find Deitrich looking at him in bemusement,

"In what, may I ask? Surely, you don't mean to leave in a blanket?"

"Where are my clothes?"

"In the machine," Deitrich gestured behind him to the washing machine that grumbled away beneath his counter, "I shall then hang them up to dry. And you and I both know that you won't be wearing any of my clothes back home so it looks like you're stranded, Mr Miles, tough. Eggs?"

"So I'm supposed to hang around naked in your house until I get my clothes back?" Miles was horrified,

"Good God, no," Deitrich countered, opening the door of the fridge, getting the eggs, "You are more than welcome to wear something of mine in my house but, Benjamin, answer the damn question, eggs?"

Miles huffed,

"Eggs," and turned to start making for the stairs, "Might I take you up on your offer for clothes, please?"

"But of course; up the stairs, take a right and you can't go wrong,"

Miles nodded and trudged up the stairs to Gordon Deitrich's room, plain compared to the rest of his house. Anyway, he hauled on a pair of pyjama pants and a massive t-shirt which fitted Miles like a tent would house a cat.  
Not entirely happy, but satisfied, Miles trudged back down to find eggs awaiting him with Deitrich back on the sofa reading the News Paper. He looked up upon Miles' return and smiled his crooked, knowing smile,

"You look rather dashing,"

Miles just gazed at him and sat down to eat his eggs beside Deitrich,

"Thank you," he said in between mouthfuls, "I appreciate you having me here, feeding me and all that,"

"Not at all,"

When Miles looked up, Deitrich was looking at him; the smug look that usually had his face in its grasp, gone, replaced with what looked like sheer awe,

"What?" Miles asked nervously,

Deitrich merely shook his head, as if shaking himself out of a stupor,

"When was the last time I had a young and attractive man in my house, I wonder,"

Miles swallowed hard.

"I wasn't aware that you were that way inclined…"

"Oh, Benjamin, of course you did,"

Miles began to protest but Deitrich waved him off,

"Don't be feeble, you know that people like you and I find each other when there's no one else; we stand out in a crowd, Benjamin – we are vibrant."

Miles met Deitrich's gaze, his solid, stead-fast, 'this is who we are' gaze. A gaze that once was so soft was now so very defiant.

"You don't have to hide here, Mr Miles,"

Miles nodded slowly, trying to adjust; trying to accept that which he had suppressed for so long he had almost forgotten he was that.

Then Deitrich moved, moved forward towards Miles, his fingers wrapping around the back of his neck and pulling him forward.

The kiss was a surprise but he responded though it was bittersweet. The relief was wonderful but the memories broke it down – the memory of loves long gone, tearing up the moment and Miles got the idea that he and Deitrich were in the same boat.

Deitrich pulled away with a sigh,

"Pity," said he, his face saddened and the defiance, gone, "Not quite what either of us want, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"So few of us – so very few if any and the two that find each other have no real attraction – it's just a shame…but it was good to give it a go, eh?"

Miles nodded again, his vocabulary lacking in any real substance,

"I suppose,"

"I'm sure there's a lot more that you suppose, isn't there,"

"Is it not enough to just be in similar company?"

"Oh, pfft, getting a little corny – c'mone, Mr Miles, eat up,"

Just then, the door-bell rang and was soon followed by a violent rapping upon the door.

Deitrich got up with a frown, making his way towards the door hesitantly – it was also then that Miles began to wonder where Deitrich had his gun.

"Evey! Good God!"

Miles stood up – enter Evey Hammond dressed like a child.

She looked at him, frozen in horror – being out-ed for lie as small as being a crew member at the BTN was enough to cripple any relationship Miles had formed with this man…  
Cripple everything really.

He looked back at her, equally as frozen, equally as horrified.

"Evey," Deitrich began, "This is –"

"You…" she whispered,

Miles let out a breath.


	8. Chapter 8

"You know each other?" Deitrich asked, surprised,

"No," Miles answered abruptly but Evey didn't get the hint,

"No, not directly…we met on the street, the night the Old Bailey got blown up. Oh God, please don't arrest me!"

"Calm down, Evey, no one's getting arrested especially not by a BTN crew member,"

"He doesn't work for the BTN! He's a Fingerman!"

"I'm not," Miles stated calmly, trying to avoid the corner he was being backed into, hypothetically,

"Did you lie to me, Mr Miles?" Deitrich looked slightly threatening, rounding on him, stepping in front of Evey; using his tall, well fed exterior and making it so much more imposing than one would have thought possible.

"Not entirely,"

"If you're not a fingerman, what are you?"

Miles glanced at Evey before returning his attention to Deitrich,

"I'm a government official who got recruited into finding the next Voice of London,"

"So that's why you were here so often…is it? Creedy would have your arse handed back to you on a plate if you didn't get the job done,"

"That's not the only reason…I swear," Miles' hands went up, the universal sign of surrender, could feel the panic rising, losing control of a situation that was so fragile to begin with,  
"You have to remember that I didn't tell anybody about you," he was talking to Evey now, frightened and shivering behind Gordon Deitrich, "I let you walk away, that has to count for something,"

"They found out anyway! You were feeding information! You still are, aren't you?"

"Not to Creedy, I'm not!"

"But to someone else?!"

"Mr Miles, sit down," Deitrich interjected, suddenly authoritative, gesturing for Evey to do the same as he took his own seat; suddenly weary, years of hiding out as a straight man catching up to him in so few minutes. He ran his hands over his face before he looked up at Miles who, like Evey, had not budged from his position. Sitting down was to submit to defeat – he couldn't afford to do that.

"You owe us a story, I think. Since working for the government, you know everything about Evey; I've told you all there is to know about me. You're the stranger now."

Miles held his tongue, unwilling to give in, unwilling to admit to a life time of wrong for the sake of hiding, to admit that he was a coward. But Deitrich was right, he'd acquired all this information because he had been trusted, were they not on the same team…so to speak?

Miles glanced at Evey, her eyes wide, angry and expectant, before sighing heavily and sitting down.

"My name _is _Benjamin Miles and I _do_ work for the government but I'm not a part of the body – I work for the Shadow, a sect that acts as almost MI6 equivalent but more internal…? Technically, we don't exist. We're the conspiracy theory everybody talks about. We don't get public repute.  
"How I got to where I am now, though…hell, if I know but it seemed like the only way to escape. If there's no way out… find a way in,"

Miles had grown up in Wales; Cardiff to be exact. He lived there until his parents moved into England because war was reaching over the county border and Northern Ireland, Wales – basically the better half of the UK were ankle deep in trouble and many were retreating into England because rumours of hopeful relief were surfacing from there. Once there, though, it seemed almost…

Worse.

Miles was there, all those years ago, a young boy but old enough to be vaguely aware of his sexuality. England was running on empty; riots were flying from city to city and disease and plague ran rampant across the country. A nuclear war from the Western world against the East was knocking on England's door and they needed a miracle to stop the impending catastrophe.

The old government was fading, wilting under the pressure of war and was eventually pushed out and a State of Emergency declared as other Political Parties started to take shape, Norsefire in particular, and gathering followers from all corners of British society.

Political rallies were organised – crowds of people hoarded into Trafalgar Square on a weekly basis to hear one Parties promises over another. Miles remembered how Norsefire's Adam Sutler sucked them all in; steam rolling ahead of all the others, becoming an enigma to hold alongside the Queen. Miles idolised them all. Idolised Adam Sutler – their new symbol of hope, their saviour; a cleaner, brighter V giving life to rumours that had brought them to London in the first place.

But what was once so exciting and hopeful, turned frightening. Words that weren't often used in public statements became frequent, violent words – threatening words.

Election Day came around and suddenly Norsefire was in power and everything changed.  
They spoke of purifying the country, cleansing it of degenerates that were supposedly to be the country's downfall. Nobody knew what that meant, let alone a gay 14 year old who was only just becoming aware of his same sex preference.

But then things started happening; people started disappearing, people Miles was fast becoming aware were black, Pakistani, crippled, diseased…gay; people Miles knew, people _like _Miles. Stories started to spread of a governmental lock down though Sutler mentioned nothing about it to his people, choosing to go on insisting that they were doing the right thing for them…but nobody knew what that was. And so came the first realisation that a right had been violated; they were being denied what should have been public information.

Braver people recognised this problem from the get-go and made for the hills – the Midlands were an ideal place to simply live and let the super powers fight their own battles and die for it. Miles' parents were ones brave enough to go and once -only once, when Miles was still a boy - did they try to make an escape but upon arrival they found the Thames barrier broken and the Midland awash with muddy marsh contaminated with virus and plague that once contracted, resulted in your untimely demise.

It was a secret kept deep and enraged many who discovered it. The barrier had been neglected during the reign of the previous government as they tried to keep the country alive but Norsefire, already far more successful, had left it as was – using it instead as a natural border crossing which regulated the amount of immigrants and emigrants by itself; separating the better half of England from the lesser making it a smaller England, a '_purer_ 'England.

But it was over looked, ignorance chosen over common sense.  
And gradually, over the years, things got worse and more brutal. Once Sutler had finally gotten an iron grip on his country, he decided to rule it with an iron fist. He slammed his foot down and out came his true colours. England suddenly became the world's largest quarantine zone, people were denied visas to leave, were denied visas to enter, shipped off to places like Lark Hill detention centre and war broke out within the country itself – Three Water's being the main epidemic that drove people right into the jaws of the monster and there they stayed. Wrapped up in complete and total compliance because somewhere deep down, if they didn't do what the government said, they knew they'd pay dearly for it.

But people would do and believe what they had to, to survive, to pretend it wasn't happening – they chose ignorance.

Somewhere in between time, the Braver of the few made for the Midlands anyway, daring an outside hell for hopes of battling and winning out there than sinking under constant pressure from the hell within. People took ferries and row boats and made for the border as fly-by-nights – Miles' family did this too but Miles bravely declined. A foolish youth still fresh out of University and had youthful dreams of joining this government and making change. He argued with his parents to a point where their departure was no longer painful until a year or so later when he realised just how wrong and foolish he had been.

Meanwhile visual and Audio-surveillance was implemented and the last ounce of freedom was stripped from them all as fascism took over as the very people who swore to protect them and lead them out of peril, lead them into a different sort of hell altogether and Miles had to lock himself away instead; deciding that it was best to stay or better yet, go deeper into where he was. He still believed in the change, but he had long lost the belief that _he_ could be the change.

He could not survive like others could, so he did what he felt like he had to do. He enrolled himself further in the heart of the government, where no one thought to look and though he did his best to avoid outing people as unfavourable, Miles was guilty of more than a few slips. Slips he made to ensure his own safety. Miles survived by bending to the government. Above all, still a child, Benny Miles hadn't seen or spoken or heard from his family in many, many years.

"This," he motioned to his body, his lean unassuming frame, "is all I have. I'm not a courageous freedom fighter that breaks anybody down from the inside; my motive was change but now all I can do is hide and it was working well up until now."

Evey and Deitrich both looked on in silence, shocked, horrified – cold…Miles didn't know where he stood in their thoughts. He knew where he stood in his own and that was foul enough.

"You're a coward," Evey said softly and though Miles had no right to retaliate, he did,

"You judge on what you see and hear but you have NO idea what it feels like! NONE! Am I so unlike anybody else who tries to hide from an oppressive government? Hide because the only way out is to die? And what, might I add, are you doing in a child's clothing?"

"I did what I had to do to escape a terrorist, I think I have some idea of what it felt like to be trapped but I didn't break anyone down in the process! I didn't stupidly play my parents down when they asked to get me out!"

Miles was silent, internalising the pain Evey's words caused him, choosing to anger even further instead,

"V is a symbol of hope long forgotten and you know it, he was the closest you'd ever be to being completely safe! Who's more of an idiot – she who flees from safety or he who seeks it in the jaws of the beast? You judge me – but you escaped to find mercy from a merciless state and don't you lie to me by telling me your intention wasn't to tell them about V if they ever caught you!"

Evey went silent, glaring at him with such force but Miles was equally as angry; angry and wounded with no one to turn to; Gordon Deitrich strangely quiet and a look of lethargy as he regarded Miles,

"I know I'm a coward," Miles continued with a sniffle, holding back the tears of rage, "But your hate doesn't offend me, it can't. I assure you, my own self-hate is worse so your petty looks of pity, Gordon can fuck right off. I don't pity _you_,"

He stood up abruptly, marched to the kitchen and opened the washing machine door forcefully. Water gushed out of its innards onto the floor and Gordon didn't even move to stop him. Merely watched as Miles tried and failed to put his clothes on quickly and neatly; in the end, he walked out with wet clothes, still dripping – not nearly respectable and grossly impractical. But he was fuming, fuming with rage at himself, at the government, at everybody's ignorance! Damn them all!

He rolled out into the chill of the night, his breath streaming from his mouth and jittered his angry way back to his flat.

An hour or so later, Miles was stilling shivering; the heat of the shower on full didn't warm him and he didn't make it to his bedroom to get new clothes on and instead he had collapsed on the soft carpet of his living room where his body heaved under forceful sobs; the sort of crying that doesn't stop until it's taken everything out of the soul – the sort of crying that comes when the bottled up emotions are too much so the bottle lid pops and the well runs over; that sort of crying that comes from a place so deep that it's a surprise to find that one can't control it.

There in the dim light; nude, vulnerable, defeated.

OoOoOOoOoO

V sat on the edge of Delia Surridge's bed, flicking through the pages of her diary, vaguely aware that he was on a time limit now that Finch had figured out who the targets were.  
He figured he had time enough to set the ball rolling though; page after page of shared memory from the ruins of a decadent past. Lark Hill, V, Valerie, the gardening, the mustard gas – everything right down to V's exact height and weight, name and surname the day he arrived at Lark Hill to the day he left it. All in shockingly good detail, he had obviously captured her imagination in a way he could have used to his advantage all those years back- alas.  
Funny, he always thought that to find these things out about himself was to have his downfall earlier than planned. And now, looking back upon his fear of miraculously getting caught by Mr Miles' whimsical browse through the archives, it was a completely unnecessary flustered panic. Not only that; reading this diary, tearing out the pages that would lead them to his door step, V was surprised to find that it meant nothing to him. Not even Delia Surridge knew what he was prior to Lark Hill. As far as he was aware, he was born there.

He stuffed the excess into his belt, paid his final dews to the woman now slumped in a warm bed with a rose clutched to her chest – an ounce of mercy he gave her to receive an ounce of relief.  
Where others died by very nearly vomiting up their insides, Delia Surridge would simply appear to have suffered heart failure but of course the Nose would know better.

There came a flash of blue, followed by the sound of sirens as V looked up to register it. Time was up.  
He placed the diary neatly upon the bed side table and made for an exit; the plan being to simply vanish like he'd always done but he didn't anticipate a rookie cop standing in the hall way with his gun out and aimed directly at V as he tried to make his subtle escape.  
The boy was dead on in the way.

"Stop." He said so sternly V had to oblige, "Hands on your head or I'll shoot,"

"A rogue," V commented casually, weary of the slight shake in the hands of the young man, a drooping fire-arm and eyes that said hysteria waited just beyond the horizon, "Where is the rest of your motley crew?"

"They'll be here, don't you worry about that," the boy sneered, but his face…unsure,

"I don't worry about that at all however; I do worry about you, young man. You see, I did not intend to meet anyone here and now that my time is running a little tight and you are between the way out and myself, I cannot guarantee your well-being so I ask you this: certify it yourself and remove yourself from my chosen path…please,"

"…What?"

There was a loud crash as the doors downstairs were forced open and vicious voices could be heard echoing off the walls.  
In the moments in between, when the rookie moved his attention from V to the top of the stairs behind him for the briefest of moments, V took advantage and made his move. He noted the look of horror on the lad's face as V was suddenly upon him, much faster than was humanly possible – the gun jerked out his hand, the crack of a breaking wrist, the anguished cry of agony and the next thing you know, the rookie was abandoned to both a broken gun and wrist within seconds and V was moving with nothing left but to charge past them.  
Cops were streaming up the stairs already but V had the upper hand, bowling into the first cop without stopping, using him as a buffer against the bullets that answered his arrival. He avoided the use of his knives, opting to use his skill of theatricality and deception to get them to shoot each other. He was a but a shadow that danced upon the wall but when he came up against Finch and Dominic, he fell short but once and had a near miss as Dominic's bullet shot past his mask, Dominic's gun inches from his face but V recovered, grabbing the prodigy's arm and hauling him from one wall to the other, Finch stumbling over Dominic's body as he hit the ground.

Then it was a home run, taking a left turn and leaving the Nose's henchman to stumble after him, V had the door insight – using his legs like a speed boat, he almost flew across the ground by any normal standards alas, security was at the door too and had spotted him – V couldn't stop, if this man was to pull out a gun or a baton, so be it.

But he didn't, upon V's somewhat chaotic stampede; the man was indeed stunned but proceeded to politely open the door, saluting the vigilante as he whisked past.

V dared a glance back, making eye contact with the guard who now looked as though that moment was the proudest moment of his life.  
V did a swift, sweeping bow to accommodate the man's pleasure before continuing on with his escape.

He ducked down alleyways and narrow side streets, looking for a way to get to the roof tops. He forcibly opened a side door fire exit and made for up, breaking out onto the roof where from he could see them all bundle out of Dr Surridge's apartment with their tails between their legs. The man V had first encountered, the rookie cop, was getting a foul talking to by Finch. V grinned, and rightly so – it was a foolish mask of heroism.

He waited until it was clear, the body moved, the apartment closed off and the people gone.  
He chuckled at these flurried moments of chaos when the Nose suddenly catches a whiff and strides forth only to find nothing and they're forced back into their dens, and an unsettled calm returns.

"Ah, just wait a little longer," V whispered into the night, removing his mask to feel the breeze upon his face. He took a deep breath; so far so good. The diary would be read by Finch and then tomorrow Finch had his meeting with Rookwood but by then he'd already be thinking about the hidden agendas of his government and with a little nudge, perhaps, just perhaps, something amazing might happen.

Another breeze waved in, the strands of black hair that made up V's wig bristling in its wake. If V was correct, the wind had quite suddenly changed direction.  
V turned his gaze to the horizon upon which sat the darkness of an approaching storm – no doubt the Voice of London would have told them that over the sirens alas, both man and accompanying object was dead.

None the less fitting; he'd been saluted by the security guard, a bold gesture so near danger.  
A storm was coming, the wind had changed – with that would come the question as to why the people weren't told as was the norm. Thus word would spread of the downed audio surveillance system. Word would spread and people would start gathering courage.

OoOoOoOoO

Deitrich threw out page after page of old censored scripts after having compared them to their originals. Blasphemous through and through; it was why he liked them so much – too bad the government had hired people smart enough to see the snarky undertow of his humour because they, themselves, certainly weren't. Sitting at his desk with a scowl, fingering their latest censored script, Deitrich felt he'd finally had enough. The city, never mind the country for now, had had enough. Something was happening, brewing in the air and everyone could feel it. It was good, it needed to be encouraged, rumours were starting up again – a whisper here or a nudge there of someone being arrested for their bravery, for defying the government, for following the path so delicately laid out for them by this man V.

If they could do it, why couldn't he? Whispers might spread, nudges might be felt but when a television show as widely watched as his suddenly makes a stand – what ho! It could be quite something.

He began to write, opting for slapstick comedy. An ode to the times when these things made people laugh regardless of how silly they were and now, with this day and age, if it didn't make them laugh out of sheer general amusement, it would make them laugh because it made their nightmare look petty. Gordon even smiled to himself. What's the worst that could happen, anyway?

When his producer walked in, Gordon looked up, happy with what he had written and gave it to him with a pompous rock of his heels while his producer read it over in horror,

"We're not doing this…" he said bluntly, peering over the top of his glasses,

"Why ever not?" Deitrich tried to look hurt but, ironically, he was too excited.

"Gordon…" he shook the papers emphatically in Deitrich's face, "Jesus! Are you trying to get us all in black bags?"

"Oh!" Deitrich threw his hands up in disbelief, "Don't be so bloody dull, the worst that's going to happen is that we're all going to do a boring fundraiser, say a public apology and be banned from television for a couple of weeks and then voila! Life goes on, ok? Come on,"

He tried to move past his producer but he cheekily side stepped into his way,

"Gordon…" he lost his words and tried to communicate with his eyes but Deitrich chuckled and then stilled, thinking about his next few words,

"Listen, Dom, we've been given an opportunity and we must make the most of it. We have to play our part – V wants a revolution, I want a revolution, everyone wants something to happen – wants change but as wonderful and magical as that man may be, he's still a man and needs a little help, eh?"

Deitrich's producer looked at him, the teeniest bit still concerned, to which Deitrich replied,

"We're a comedy show, this is poking fun at everyone – we'll be fine," he put his hand on the man's shoulder, "Trust me,"

That seemed to do the trick as the Producer nodded wryly and held the papers more firmly as he made for the stage, Deitrich on his heels. He was glad of his uncanny ability to get people to trust him.

OoOoOoO

As Deitrich's show went live that night, from deep in the heart of the gallery, V laughed. He laughed and he laughed like everyone else.  
Although he didn't quite appreciate the fact that he was portrayed as someone as lowly so as to tie the Chancellor's shoelaces together and consider it a decent gag but all in all – it was all in the name of fun.

V was impressed, this was fresh – a new change. It would be all over the newspapers – censored, yes, but EVERYONE would have seen that. There was no stopping this show running riot.

And then came the finale and as Deitrich bowed and left, V found himself giving him a one man standing ovation.

Now, that wouldn't have made the chancellor happy which meant vengeance was nigh. The more V thought, the more frequently his gaze turned to Evey's room; eventually, still smiling, V made for his black governmental do-up, balaclava and all; leaving Guy Fawkse to brood in the empty gallery alone for once.

OoOoOOoO

Miles didn't laugh – not once. In fact, he watched in stunned silence as Gordon Deitrich's show played out before his eyes.  
Bold, foolish and full of foolery and yet it spoke volumes. There was no fear in it and it certainly wouldn't have been censored.

This was going to make Chancellor angry – no, beyond angry! Livid, angry enough to crush the milk glass he had while watching the show even.  
And if Miles' luck was as bad as he thought it might be, he'd be the one to get the call telling him and a group of others to go and pay Mr Deitrich back in kind on behalf of the Chancellor.

Fear subsided then and was replaced by anger – anger at Deitrich and everybody who jeopardised his safety and what morals he had left. They were twisted already; he didn't want to twist them more!

The TV went off and so did the lights and Miles, once again, found himself getting ready for a call to go hunting. He sat down and stared at the phone, waiting…waiting but nothing came, the hour was getting later and later and still nothing.

Until it did; Miles picked it up on the first ring,

"Go clear it up – look for anything else."

Then it went dead and Miles put the receiver down with a gentle click…  
What exactly was it that he was looking for? What was 'anything' else?  
They didn't know Evey was there…

5 minutes later, Miles was sprinting the blocks to get to Deitrich's before anyone else did; hoping against hope she was still there, that he wouldn't find a body, he even pulled out his gun for fear of having to take action – action he wasn't sure he could actually take should the need arise. He had discovered he was capable of defying Creedy, but he wasn't so sure if he could shoot one of his own - still, Evey Hammond was important now…  
Or at least, in his bones, she was – no real reason.

He burst in, aiming but the house was silent, the door frame splintered from forced entry, the locks broken, the house turned upside down.  
Miles shot upstairs into Deitrich's room – no one; he checked under the bed, he checked in the cupboard but there was no one. He rushed into the spare room and did the same, the window was open though so Miles even stuck his head out to check if there was a body lying on the ground below or a foot disappearing over the ledge of the roof but there was nothing, no evidence of anything save the splatter of blood on the floor and the broken door knob.

Miles paced back down the stairs with heavy shoulders, a heavier heart and an even heavier conscience –  
In the darkness, Miles sat on Deitrich's couch and looked on ahead in a daze towards the Wine rack; a vast collection of wines spreading from the floor to the roof with one looking slightly out of place. In fact, if Miles squinted, the wall itself seemed slightly askew.

He stood and made for it, laying a hand on the lopsided wine bottle and proceeding to put the smallest amount of pressure on it for experimental sake.  
The wall gave way and suddenly, a secret room was revealed and Miles laid eyes on God Save the Queen; a satirical poster for the play that had been bravely put on all those years ago prior to Sutler's self-promotion; highly offensive, highly comical.

But there was a Qur'an too…

There were pictures of Deitrich's rendezvous with other men, explicit pictures- somewhat tortured pictures – these things were but pieces of many unorthodox things considered to be politically offensive but they were also among the worst and as Miles made to leave, aware that if that was ever found, neither Deitrich – nor Evey, would be certified to ever see the light of day again; best to make sure it never came to light.

"Mr Miles? What the…feck….is that?"

There, in the door way, one of his own – incredulous, horrified. Miles froze; his hand drifting unceremoniously to feeling up the gun. If he shot him, no one would know about Deitrich – if he shot him, the government would want to know why, after a mere hour of Creedy having called Miles, this man was dead.

Decision time as the man took a step forward to peer deeper into the depths of Deitrich's secrets,

"We'll have to call Creedy on that one," he said, mesmerised by the magnitude of the illegal contents, "God,"

Miles shut the door abruptly, feeling the wine bottle that acted as the door knob click shut and with that came a firmness he thought he lacked. He turned his cold, hard glare, usually reserved for the mere mortals on the street, on his comrade.

The man stopped, his awe gone and replaced by irritable puzzlement,

"What's your problem?"

"We're not going to tell Creedy," Miles answered coolly, "We're not going to tell anybody,"

He felt himself calm, words formulating in his head easily; no need for courage – no need for prayer; this new strength came in waves and entirely on its own.

"Is that so?" The man tried to sound challenging but Miles could see the nerves in him; he had turned away slightly as if prey was judging the moment to bolt. It gave Miles even more confidence, a battle he could win – a battle he was winning and with ease, "You and who's army?"

"Myself, and a shard of glass," Miles bent to scoop one up from the ground courtesy of a broken picture frame having fallen from grace, "If Deitrich or Miss Hammond land up dead, I will peel your very skin from your very bones and call it vengeance by the hand of the terrorist and it **is** plausible…"

The man looked at Miles, terrified, swallowing hard as Miles gazed at him, kneading the glass shard around and around in his palm. When the man made no response, Miles nodded, a thin and meaningless smile gracing his lips,

"I think we have an understanding,"

He made sure to give his 'comrade' a reassuring pat on the back as he made his exit; elated.  
It was new, this sense of power. It was so easy, so simple to scare him and Miles knew why. It was because it wasn't expected – the unexpected made things dangerous, made Miles dangerous, made him unpredictable and made him powerful.

Miles was a mild man but he had just threatened to peel off someone's skin with a shard of glass and had every intention of doing so should things have gone wrong. He stopped a moment to consider that – that was indeed quite a drastic change…

He waited to see if the feeling would go – but minute after minute that went from standing in the street to sitting in his chair back at his home, the feeling stuck.  
_IF_ Deitrich or Evey wound up dead because of that man, he would definitely do it.

Powerful.


	9. Chapter 9

"Bollocks"

Nothing. Big eyes magnified by enormous glasses, scrutinising the surveillance camera and waiting for it to respond but it didn't.

"Bollocks," she said again, with a smile, "Bollocks this,"

She pulled a spray can from her bag and headed straight for the wall, proceeding to draw V's name on it.

"Bollocks the government, Bollocks Danny,"

"Who?" V wondered aloud as he watched the girl vandalise the wall, his Rookwood mask placed neatly upon a stand beside his computer. He had linked up what was left of surveillance to his own computer for no other reason that for curiosity – to see where the city was in terms of his plans, how the people reacted. But he cut out connections to their houses, the government was perverted in many ways but V kept the outside world fully on screen with no intention of doing anything about it. He was hoping to create a place where people could do as they pleased, first though, people would take what they want as they realised their freedom. Chaos was around the corner.

"Bollocks, Mrs Brady and Bollocks Mr Gurling!"

V hadn't a clue who she was talking about but this was a sign. Word was spreading – surveillance was out and people were beginning to talk about it.  
Alarm bells should have been starting go off all over parliament as the government would be beginning to lose tabs on who they should have been watching as people began to realise they were no longer able to _be_ watched.

V flicked through some of the other channels, listening – wondering, determining.

So, the time had come – the people believed, he had found out only minutes ago, he was still alive despite the news coverage telling them he'd been shot when he had attacked the BTN.  
And with November the 5th drawing ever nearer, it was time to accelerate the idea.

OoOoOoOOoOoOO

"Eric Finch?"

"Yes…?"

"Thumb print please, Sir,"

Finch pressed his thumb to the scanner and took the package inside with him, placing it on the kitchen table to take a look inside. He peeled open the brown paper and removed the lid and almost fell over the kitchen chair behind him in his haste to escape the mask looking back at him.

Guy Fawkse had followed him home – a day after being told of the events at Lark Hill, after meeting Rookwood. Coincidence could hardly be considered, the timing was far too perfect. As if to say, "Feel the idea? Here's the idea!"

A mere 45 minutes later, Finch had burst into the office, Dominique already madly shovelling through papers with the phone crunched up between his shoulder and his ear. He looked up at Finch as he came in, throwing off his coat with vigour,

"How many went out?" he asked urgently,

"Uh…" Dominique wrote down a number, "Getting them in now…2000 and counting,"

"Christ!" Finch didn't even know what to do. Dominique put down the phone and shrugged as Finch walked past him to gaze out the window – delivery vans swarmed the streets, different people getting the masks and retreating back into their homes, puzzled.

This was going to blow all hopes of getting the people to believe the BTN when they say the terrorist is definitely dead. Finch had a sudden impulse to give up – to let it go, to let it happen, was it so bad? To have change as drastic as this?

It was needed, if he were to be honest, especially having learnt what he had the night before about the people he worked for.  
It was just a building after all…wasn't it?  
Symbols are powerful because of the people. They can build other symbols…It wasn't like they didn't have a plan B, anyway.

Finch was about to voice all of this before he caught himself, shaking himself free of the thought,

"Dominique…can I ask you something?"

Dominique stood beside him, equally as helpless,

"What's up, Chief?"

"Can I ask you to run back ground checks on all the murdered party members? The terrorist left a diary that had every detail about Delia's time at Lark Hill…I want to know where everyone stands too."

"Sure…I'll get on it…" Dominique began to move, but stopped, confused, "Wait…what? The terrorist left a diary?"

"Yeah…" Finch said absent minded, "Yeah…not his, it was Delia's, sorry, clarity,"

"Ah,"

Finch didn't notice Dominique's inquisitive gaze, the questioning look of wonder as he considered Finch as Finch considered Lark Hill, V and his freedom – the steadfast determination behind his visage. If Finch could get inside V's head, things might be easier to understand for this wasn't just about blowing up a fascist state, this was blatant vengeance.

That night, after Dominique had given Finch the low down on everyone, he was shocked to find that Father Lilliman was a paedophile and the highest paid man there, Lewis Prothero was a commander and dealt in drugs, Delia Surridge was the Doctor who was directly linked to V.

Everyone else who had one connection or another to the others, equally as cringe worthy, were long dead. But they were a string of natural deaths but Finch knew better now as he poked around the dark perimeter that was Lark Hill.

He had bought LSD off a druggy that roamed the alleys because it was said that LSD opened the mind. Finch thought that with those he might be able to see and feel what V felt and they were tempting as they bounced around in his jacket pocket, playing with his fingers as he grabbed and then let go, weary of the effects.

He needed to find V's cell, then he would try the drugs and see what would happen. But it was near impossible to find for the building had literally been blown to hell. Nothing was obvious, all wreck and ruin and rightly so but infuriatingly difficult to navigate.

Once Finch had worked out where the lab was, he worked his way out, eventually finding a lone door that stood without the walls that read 'I' on it, the roman numeral for one and he was A for Away. He had to count on his own but once he figured out where he was, he stepped over the brick border that marked out V's cell and sat down on a rock, still playing with the tiny pills as they rattled away in his pocket.

V's room was the tiniest bit bigger than everyone else's and he imagined the man sitting just so in the centre, looking out of his mind's eye at the fields that stretched out before him.  
As Finch imagined, he felt things coming to life, suddenly the walls were up and he was locked inside. There were musical notes scratched onto them and Finch imagined the theatricality that came with V – his whole survival strategy was pretend, wasn't it? He must have been quite eccentric and the use of theatricality and deception as a means for escape was just about ingenious.

But he never let it go…he continued to do as he did, made people out to be clowns and Finch remembered a slightly misquoted Shakespearian saying,

'All the world is a stage -the rest…is vaudeville.'

It was a well-staged production this, a long time in the making but as Finch stepped through the door and started walking towards what V's freedom must have been – things seem to clear.  
He could see it; the fire, the crops, the people as they ran for cover while others stood in awe, the doctors in tears as all their work got burned up and became ash all the while V stood, naked and alive beneath a roaring sky, the main character revealed, his story set; let the play begin!

Finch saw other things too…

Scary things, things bigger than V, bigger than parliament – other actors taking on different roles…people he knew.

He took the LSD from his pocket. He didn't need it, didn't want it. If he saw this sober, he couldn't imagine the horror of seeing it enhanced.

V's entire persona, his visage, his enigmatic colourful self was driven by so many things and yet Finch couldn't help but wonder if all it was entirely necessary, whether V was simply adding parts to make his plot line more interesting – they really were puppets on a string to the likes of V.

A master of the arts, V was driven by vaudeville.

OoOoOoOoO

"Dead." Miles looked at his fellow man, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah…" he countered nervously, Miles' face intimidating him.

Ever since the revelation at Deitrich's, Miles had ensured that he wore it often, the dirty look of power.

"When and why?" he hissed.

"I don't know, it's just word on the street – also, word on the street says Creedy'll have another talk to us, they say it's about lock down,"

Miles frowned,

"I don't care what word on the street is, I need to know how Gordon Deitrich is dead! Why? They had nothing to kill him for!"

Miles' venture into angry territory had failed it appeared, and he felt fear rising again, despair,

"What about Evey Hammond?"

"Who? Wha - I don't know! Honest, but you _should_ care about word on the streets 'cause it might just save your arse!"

Miles scowled at him, frustrated with the amount of things piling up that supposedly could save his arse but Miles had forfeited his arse the night he threatened one of his own.

"Evey Hammond…the terrorist's alley…?" Miles pushed.

"If we had that woman, don't you think we would have had news coverage of it by now? I suspect we would have heard something from this V character too,"

Miles felt suddenly lost. He looked around, looking for answers from the air. He looked for Evey but he got blank stares back and when he looked back at his companion, he found smug arrogance plastered on his face,

"Yeah," his companion continued, pulling an apple from his pocket and taking a juicy bite, "masks have gone out and all prominent party leaders are dead, surveillance is fucked – they're losing control. They need eyes –"

"What masks?" Miles cut in, puzzled,

"You know, _his_ masks, the Guy Fawkse masks, sent out anonymously this morning. The whole city's got 'em! How did you miss it?"

Miles paused,

"I didn't get one…"

"Ah well, that's a shame. Not cool enough then, eh?" He nudged Miles and laughed, showing the chewed up apple in his jaws. Miles felt his frown deepen, it was impossible that V simply forgot about him, impossible even that he didn't know his address,

"Eyes?"

"What?"

"You said they'll need eyes…"

"Oh right! On the street, big job for us coming up, I think,"

"We'll have to wait and see…"

"Look around you, Mr Miles," he threw away his apple, no longer intimidated by Miles as he began to walk away, "Can you see an alternative to this? They can't see us; they can't touch us, look!"

He pulled down his trousers and mooned the ally camera and what should have happened were sirens signalling offense but not even Miles was worried about the consequence. His compatriot stood like that for a good few moments before pulling up his trousers again and grinning.  
Miles grinned back, a strange feeling, genuine, the despair for Deitrich disappearing for the briefest moment and Evey wasn't caught so she must have escaped….hope bloomed again.

"We're free, Mr Miles,"

Just then, their walky-talky's went off, Creedy's voice ringing out over their minute euphoria,

"All personal to the Tower…NOW!"

Dead.

Miles looked up his companion, who shrugged as he did up his belt,

"Lock down…"

OoOoOoOo

Creedy's words were foul and harsh and the men and women around Miles seemed to be like the people in his dream; obedient and terrifyingly efficient as the state of emergency was declared.  
They filtered out like spiders onto the streets, fanning out into the ally's and onto the main streets of London, the army was let out just as Finch envisioned, there in the darkness of Lark Hill.

Somebody doing something stupid and that little girl with the big round glasses with a grudge against Danny was shot and killed and riots took off – spreading down from the North and finally into London itself. With nothing to hold them back, things blew up without hesitation.

While V stood back and watched the chaos unfold. Creedy had put the X on his door, in his lust for power and ironic fear of death V knew he'd catch something with the surveillance in his own home. He'd found that Creedy would kill Sutler in an instant if it worked to his advantage and in this case it worked to both of theirs. He was angry at first, Creedy was, but V knew he'd understand. The party was set to crumble within.

While Miles found himself in between, watching various parts of the government disappear into the dark, weaving in and out of the streets of everywhere as sinister as shared mistrust while he stood passively on the side lines.

Not much braver so as to put a direct stop to it but finding enough in himself not to be a part of it.

Evey was finally freed and she too witnessed the growing hysteria, her own growth fuelled by the events happening around her, started by her experiences laid on by V and constant because of Valerie's letter.

That scribbled autobiography strangely influential towards the people that needed it most and from someone so much stronger from the very get go where Evey and, even, V had to be taught.

But at the bottom of it, it wasn't brute strength that she was trying to convey – it was the humanity in which the strength is found to do what is morally correct by one's own debilitations.

Miles still struggled and as time weaved on and things grew more fragile and more violent, Sutler was forced to give Creedy the go-ahead to allow the police, the shadows, the fingers and the nose…everybody, to be mixed and matched as various sectors of surveillance began to fail in numbers.  
Members from various squadrons were brought into other squadrons they knew nothing about for assistance. Things were catapulting and V merely saw it as a winning streak. Freedom was so close and yet so far. Even with fumbling attempts by these miss-matched sectors, riots were still stamped out albeit with just that much more effort.

But Finch had seen it all in his mind's eye and he thought to give Dominique the hint but why trouble the boy?  
Having it thrive within his head alone was troubling enough.  
But there was one vision that troubled him more than anything… one that somewhat seemed plausible, seemed almost definite.

Blood, blood dirtying the knuckles of someone he knew from an event that would be documented for historical usage, an event that would send the government spiralling down.

OoOoOoOoOoO

"Mr Miles," Creedy sneered as Miles stood steady, his hands behind his back to hide the trembles. He was a new man, now. He was a dangerous man, he couldn't afford to tremble as he did and yet…

"Mr Miles, Mr Miles, Mr Miles…such a fickle man, I have a job for you and believe you me, you _will_ do it and obey when the time comes and I say again, believe you me, it _is_ coming."

"What do you want, Creedy?" Miles held his gaze, unblinking – strength, anger, brutal.  
Trembling.

"You will most probably be transferred to riot police –"

"What?" Miles started, his hidden hands jerking out from their hiding place.

"And you will be front row and in will run second only to Mr Durnham, do you understand?"

Miles understood, alright.  
He should have known he wasn't as strong and brave as he had believed himself to have become.  
He wanted to cry while Creedy watched with malicious content.


	10. Chapter 10

Miles sat with his knees scrunched up beneath his chin, his stubble growing in thick and his hair dishevelled. He'd known fear and he thought he had overcome it but this was an entirely new level; inescapable, all powerful, swallowing him up and leaving him to die of it. In these moments, he didn't think he'd mind.

He should have known Creedy would find away. He'd stopped asking for information - that should have been hint enough.  
Finch had somewhat disappeared off the radar too, he hadn't tried to contact Miles in weeks, he hadn't even seen Dominique and V – no matter how hard he scanned the roof tops, he couldn't find him. He daren't venture back into the tube station either. His resolve had fallen to pieces simply by being told that he was going to be first in line with the firing squads: he was going to kill people with guns while they fought back feebly with sticks, stones and spades from the garden shed.

He sniffed, he sobbed.

As an extra precaution, the Shadow had been designated rounds. Their job now, was to roam the streets at uncanny times of the day and night and simply cut down whoever was out to deface the country – enemies of the state, they would be labelled. They'd been given bullets to put in their guns and told they were only rubber bullets but Miles had taken a sneak peak and found a lie.

So his dismantled gun and shards of bullet lay on a table a little way away from him, the phone a little way away from it. Evil things that he once used so off-handed now petrified him. Things he took for granted that perhaps, now that he thought on it, he shouldn't have– violent things.

He was a mild man, he thought, he wasn't designed for violence and he never meant to put himself on a path that lead him here; all he wanted to do was hide!

Well, ghosts always come for you.

Miles stood up, weary of his legs as they shook beneath him, exhausted from two days lack of sleep, he did his rounds in a sleepless induced haze, barely seeing what was about him.  
He checked the time; 3am in the morning. It was time to do his rounds again anyway; sleep was always going to be interrupted.

He walked out into the night, the air chilling him to his bones despite his thick coat.  
And despite the constant failed attempts, Miles wondered about the streets looking up.

"Come on, mate, you have to be watching this," he whispered as his eyes scanned the roof tops. That was how he got about wasn't it?  
A clang from an ally had him turning on his heel to find the source of the sound, so offensive it was to the still of the night. Odd though it was, London was one of the few cities that actually did go to sleep at night.

He padded through the darkness, his torch dim in its hue. The circular haze landed upon the country's unity poster, over its words, in red paint was V's sign and below it, a can.

Miles chuckled grimly, throwing his light from his left to his right whereupon it found another familiar site, a tube station.

His grim chuckle lost to the night, Miles went into what can only be described as a trans. He headed off for the central line tube, not too far from where he was but a bus would do though it was slow and the lights went by like a dream. He got off near Trafalgar Square and found his secret 'authorised personal only' door and walked in, only coming back to life once he'd reached the bottom of the broken down escalators.

He tentatively poked his head around the entrance to the platform, memories of his last encounter soaring back like a train to a brick wall.

Once sure there was no one out to get him, Miles jumped down onto the track and started off, the crunch of gravel bouncing off the curved interior of the tube.  
He walked with purpose, he walked in between sleep and wake, somewhat absolutely sure that where'd he'd end up, was exactly where he intended to get to.

He stopped suddenly; movement ahead told him to be cautious and on his guard and he reached for his gun to find it wasn't there for he had left it on his table. He cursed under his breath, picked up the biggest rock he could find and kept moving, all but tiptoeing as he approached the dull, eerie light of the platform, loud thuds, footsteps, a grunt here and there, another thud before it stopped and there was the crunch of gravel as someone dropped onto it. Miles stopped.

Then a breath that came from the movement of a cloth and before he knew it, Miles was suddenly heaved and hauled and thrown onto the platform where he rolled in a stiff pain, letting a wince have a sound.

"Ah," a familiar muffled voice came from behind, "Mr Miles, I feared you were someone else, I apologise profusely,"

Miles rolled onto his back, staring up at the mouldy ceiling, grimacing. V bent to him,

"Are you alright?"

"I -…ow, V," Miles glared at him, "Help me up,"

V chuckled, offered his hand and heaved, Miles was on his feet faster than anticipated, the speed leaving him momentarily disorientated. When he came around, he found V carrying large bundles of God knew what in and out of the train, he did so with ease and systematically.

The outside of the train, Miles noticed, was quite beautiful, V had gone to great lengths to make the train shimmer and shine in the light,

"Lovely," Miles commented as V walked past yet again.

V glanced at him, as he walked by,

"Yes, I did it myself; the paint is gelignite as are these bundles of mine,"

Miles' eyes widened,

"Pardon me?"

"You are pardoned," V walked past him again to retrieve another,

"What are you doing with it?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm doing with it but if you want an honest answer, I'm disposing of it. Evey will have nothing to do with it,"

"Have you seen her?"

V stopped briefly; Miles detected a hint of sagging shoulders,

"No," he said finally, "But you might, I feel you might."

He turned to Miles, looking at him directly,

"You and Evey are more similar than you think, you're both equally as brave, equally as doubtful of that trait but I feel in time, a short time I might add, this might come clear,"

Miles smirked,

"I doubt it,"

"Yes well, I don't play with dice. Can you please bring that last box over?"

Miles looked over at the last gelignite box, hesitantly, he was fine with watching V load everything up but to assist…to ASSIST?

He looked at V and then back to the box, to V who looked back and Miles could feel the amusement that resembled the mask he wore, and then back to the box.

"Alright, Mr Miles, I'll spare you this, but your time is coming," he marched past Miles, picked the box up and gestured for Miles to follow him in whereupon he was greeted by dozens of these boxes and it seemed like they were in every cart too,

"Holy shit…" Miles breathed, "It's real…you're going to do it…"

"Did you ever think I would not?"

Miles looked at him, 'vicariously cast as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of fate…'

No, fate had vicariously recast him as the indifference between the two.

"V, one question – why the masks?"

"Can you imagine a thousand of me? Powerful isn't it?"

Miles could feel the self-satisfied grin as it gleamed from within the depths.

"Alright, fine. Why didn't I get one? You left me out, and dare I say, I'm offended?"

"Oh," V pushed past him irritably, "I've got one for you, don't you worry. There, do you feel better?"

"Where is it?"

"First you must ask why you want it,"

Miles fell silent.

"What do you plan to do now, Mr Miles?" V asked, cocking his head,

Miles had no idea…his head was spinning.

"Go home I guess, and wait to see what happens next,"

"There are 4 days before the fifth…at 11pm on November the 4th; if you are in anyway inclined to search for me…I'll be around here,"

Miles frowned but nodded his goodbye, having seen what he'd come to see and retreated into the open, dawn breaking over the city and through the cracks in the walls.

OoOoOoO

Four days slipped by unusually quickly and Finch had become all but a recluse. His experience at Lark Hill led him back to Dominique in a haze. Dominique had then hesitantly given up everything he'd found about the workers of Lark Hill and that further sent him back to his encounter with 'William Rookwood' who was actually V – which infuriated him then but now it no longer mattered. That peculiar encounter opened up his mind in the first place and now Finch was in a place he wished he wasn't. A place where he wished he could have remained ignorant to blasphemy but was also vaguely empowered by the knowledge but then didn't know what to do about it…if anything.

Every now and then he allowed himself to breathe in relief and simply believe that it was ok, and that V had it all covered.  
All he really had to do was wait and see, to let it happen.

Things really were going pear shaped as far as he was concerned. Government security was going haywire, surveillance was well and truly gone and everyone knew, all they had were eyes and nobody had eyes at the back of their heads and the need to worry was slowly depleting within.  
The government, Finch was sure was the plan, was starting to implode. A slow atomic sort of explosion that rumbled and eventually burst out in light and what…freedom…was freedom a light?...would be thrust upon them and England would be on a new path.

Finch shook his head…now, chaos. Chaos had been thrust upon them, it had burst through his door…it had begun days, even months ago and he had denied it. But V was striving for 'do as you please' not 'take what you want', there was a subtle difference and freedom meant knowing the difference between the two and having a choice between two different futures that started off on the same path.

Morning after morning he'd be awake before his alarm, he'd watch the sun peep over the horizon lazily, his eyes heavy from a sleepless night, his body craving rest and yet his mind kept on keeping on.

This chaos now, the beginnings of it, was the first step – V was taking a risk. They all were.

He couldn't be just anybody; he cared too much about this place, London, this God forsaken spit of city that was as much a hell hole as it was a symbol of power.

The parliament building was cast as shadow against the red light of dawn and everyone knew what they said about Shepherds and red skies. Finch narrowed his eyes – his morals had also been torn up to shreds and left to float down the Thames. It was time for a lot of people to make a choice…

And…

Something was happening. The army…

No…

Finch squinted,

"Oh…" he looked over at his clock, November 4th had finally arrived, "Should have known."

OoOoOoO

Riot police were marching through the streets like nobody's business; the army were setting up outside the houses of parliament and rumours had everybody looking to the sky but only Mr Benjamin Miles knew better; Mr Miles and Evey Hammond.

They hadn't been able to take their eyes off the tube stations whenever they walked passed them.

Miles's adrenaline was pumping and had continued to pump through his veins since the moment he first became aware that he was awake. The eve of the infamous November the 5th had arrived and no doubt this was the day for chaos to reign supreme.

Miles stepped out into the cold November air and didn't bother going to the office, instead he listened. He listened to the sounds of the buzzing city as it tossed and turned and shook itself awake, the air was electric, mixed with unstable ingredients of fear and excitement.

Fear meant irrational responses to irrational excitement. Civil war could be so easily provoked, genocide so easily a result, hysteria inevitable –

But Miles, in his heart, had made his choice. He knew this and he knew he'd stand by it and so far so good with not being called in for Riot police, but the day was still young and he also still knew himself to be a mild man, fearful.

He wafted like the shadow he was through streets, alleyways, courtyards, abbey's until he stopped. His eyes took a while to adjust to what was before him.

A woman, balled of head, defined of jaw, petite, brown eyes and lovely yet…she'd hardened and now differed from the woman he first 'met' all those months ago. He would have laughed if he had it in him, the tables had turned. He padded over to her carefully, still unsure if she was actually her.

"Evey Hammond?"

The woman turned her head to look at him, slow and graceful, full of knowledge and fearless. She smiled when she saw him,

"Mr Miles,"

Miles stopped short…the last time they'd met was one well worth forgetting. She was so angry at him and he so angry at her and Mr Deitrich…oh, Mr Deitrich.

"I thought you dead," he whispered, almost inaudibly, "I was…afraid that you were,"

"Yes…" she dropped her gaze and was suddenly thoughtful, "Yes, I was afraid too. So afraid…I thought I _would _die,"

"How did you get out?"

"V let you me go?"

Miles stalled.

"V…let you go?"

"Yeah…" she chuckled grimly, "He was behind my incarceration…unfortunately not Gordon's, though,"

"God," Miles felt himself weaken, his legs just about ready to fail him.

Evey shifted over and gestured to the seat beside her, allowing Miles to plop down perplexed.

"You look stronger," was all he managed.

"Yes, I have V to thank for that. Mr Miles, he put me through hell. He cut my hair, he tortured me and in so doing, taught me about myself and I am grateful,"

"I would have hated him for that!" Miles felt a misplaced rage rise, confusion bubbling up alongside – he wasn't supposed to be angry at V, not now that he'd invested himself in anarchy.

"And I did…he created a lie and I learnt truth…I am strong. I am brave. I cannot die," she glanced at him knowingly, "The same could be said about you,"

Miles deflated at that point, the rage simmering down to shame, the confusion without point,

"No, it can't. So many times I thought it could but…too many times I have let that slip past me. I'm set for riot police, Evey!" he threw up his hands for emphasise, "If I get caught up in that shit, I'm gone,"

She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before pulling out a small, neatly folded A4 sheet of paper and handed it to him.

"What's this?" he took it from her in puzzlement,

"It what helped me survive, it's a small piece of freedom. V gave it to me through a hole in the wall but he didn't write it. Valerie did. V's got his original copy, I wrote this out because I wanted her with me always. I can go back and re-write it from V but you have only this. Sorry," she shrugged, "So keep it. I was shown the doors that led me out of my cage – this helped me find them and helped me decide to take a step out. I think it will help you find the way to your doors too. Also," she let out a puff of air, smiling warmly, "I think you'll relate more,"

Miles unfolded the piece of paper,

"Who's Valerie?"

"She was in the cell next to V, helped him survive – though she didn't,"

Miles looked at her, but Evey only shrugged,

"Read and be enlightened. She was stronger than any of us could ever hope to be but understand this before you take a step through; happiness isn't freedom nor is freedom happiness. They are merely compatriots – sometimes they can hinder each other."

Miles just looked at her incredulously, before returning his attention to the paper,

"Thank you," he said awkwardly, "Oh wise and wonderful one,"

She laughed and stood up,

"Good Bye, Mr Miles, I'll see you when I see you again."

And she was gone. Like a ghost.

With naught else to do, Miles began to read.  
And quietly, without thought, as the words read, 'My name is Valerie', Miles whispered,

"Hi Valerie,"

And as if a connection was made, Miles was there with her and he loved her and he hated them and he was angry and then he was calm but at the very end, as tears dribbled down his pale face, he was warm. He was alright.

Then his phone rang, drawing him back and a short time later he was in the office and an even shorter time later he was tucking the biography away into the heart pocket of his new blue, riot uniform all squeaky clean.

They shoved a shield into his hands and told him to march, this bazaar man Mr Durnham with his entire face seemingly put on askew, a big nose and hard, hard eyes and the other policeman around Miles equally as hard and mismatched. Miles, beneath his helmet, tried to find some of his own but it was impossible to tell with the balaclava hiding that which the helmet left out. He felt violent, he felt small and fickle but he had Valerie's letter in his pocket – it would be ok, he knew what he was going to do and if he timed it right…it might just throw everything.

In a moment of self-acceptance, the first time he'd ever felt it, he turned to his comrade with a shrug,

"I'm about to do something stupid,"

His comrade looked at him, his eyes showing his carelessness, and he snorted,

"We all are, bud,"

Miles wanted to say something else but didn't get the chance.

"MOVE OUT!" shouted Durnham and they all piled into one tiny police van after another, squashed in within an inch of their lives and it smelled like sweat and un-brushed teeth and alcohol.

"I'm fuckin' quitting," Miles growled against the shoulder of another man. He didn't think anyone heard him but was proved otherwise when someone else agreed and they all laughed.

The rides were uncomfortable and with one roaring turn after another leaving them all swearing through the barred window at the driver, they finally arrived and as they had all piled in, so they all piled out…fell out.

"Assemble! MOVE, Boys, ASSEMBLE! MR MILES!"

Miles poked his head around the broad back of the man in front of him,

"Yeah?" He wasn't quite sure where his nonchalance had come from but he enjoyed it.

Durnham scowled at him and muttered something incomprehensible,

"Front and centre, Creedy has had a place especially organised for you – step back, kid," said he to the man in front of Miles and so they gingerly swapped places, Miles offering up a quick thanks but was ignored. Not that he cared.

"Alright, around this next corner is hell – can you hear it?"

Silence.  
Miles listened, listened hard but there was nothing. Miles squinted over at Durnham but he paid no attention. He took a deep, manly sniff and then gathered his height,

"Let's move."

He took the first step, prompting every man beside and behind to follow and suddenly, in pristine fashion, Miles was marching beside London's finest to stamp out people with sticks…

They rounded the corner and there, to Miles' sudden shock and surprise, awaited the public – angry, ready for war.

So this was it.

They stopped - the riot police did, following Durnham to a T. He banged his baton against his plastic shield once, twice, thrice and then so did they all. It felt like a battle cry –

"Come on, you bastards," Miles heard Durnham mutter but the crowd hesitated, intimidated by the brutal attire that accommodated the brutality that surely waited. What once seemed so easy, seemed, now, so impossible.

Miles then heard a chuckle…

"We'll just have to do it without the fun then,"

Miles' shoulder's dropped. He had a plan, but his plan was to blend in – this situation required him to stand out.

He took a step forward, then, Valerie's letter still in his pocket and everything stilled. The sound of his own breathing loud within the confines of the mask, his heart pounding in his chest, threatening to jump out his mouth –

_Be calm…be still…_

Miles turned and looked Durnham, whose eyes were wide and uncomprehending, dead in the eye – took a breath and found the courage and the blub and with all the force he could muster, he swung it.

It cracked against the shield but the plastic thing remained unharmed and so Miles kicked and he got it out of the way, clubbing Durnham in the face; someone else had turned on Miles and he swung at them too, kicked at another, threw his shield in the face of yet another – with every ounce of rage did he fight until he was overwhelmed and he was punched, gutted and thrown to the floor and in the commotion, Miles could see Durnham looking angrily down at him, reaching for his gun.

Miles' eyes widened, he was going to die.

But a roaring, thundering storm of feet and spade and gravel drew all their attention away from him and as Miles arched his back to see over his shoulder, he was just in time to see one roaring man leap over him with such ferocity that it didn't seem to matter whichever way he landed.

Then came them all and Miles had to scramble to his feet amidst war but none of the citizens tried to fight him or even hurt him and so he fought like them. He turned and he continued to beat down fiercely on shield and helmet and like wild fire, news spread within a day.

The police were beaten down, betrayed by one of their own and it became the most important fact of the decade.  
It was a small piece of history, when the government realised that even their own people were angry enough to turn on them so cunningly.  
Within a day, news had spread all over the country, people fought back without fear and V…

OoOoOoO

V sat cross legged at the head of his fallen dominoes,

"Poor little things," he whispered, letting Guy Fawkse smile for him for the mask was infinitely better at it, "All numbered on your blank little faces, set up by callous fate, affected most and understand the least and understanding, invariably, arrived too late. Numbered and ranked as tiny wooden men. Poor, poor little things," he chuckled, "A snap of history's fingers and down you went."


	11. Chapter 11

Miles bolted back as fast as his legs could carry him, tearing off his helmet and dropping his baton and shield as he went. The aim was to get home as quickly as he could and burn whatever he had left that was evidence of himself, pack a bag and get the hell out for that strange presence he had temporarily forgotten about was still with him. Someone still watched him. Or it did then when he left the catastrophic mess.

He tore into his home like he was a thief and grabbed his gun and gathered all its bits, loaded it and cocked the trigger – he wasn't out for blood, but once Creedy figured out what he had done, and it wouldn't be long with whoever's face telling him so, Creedy would be out to get him.

Looking around frantically for any last minute things, Miles caught sight of his television remote, set just so, placed neatly upon his table facing his television which he had not turned on in over a year.  
Miles padded over to it and picked it up tentatively, as if it were porcelain.  
Kneading it in the palm of his hand, Miles eventually decided to turn it on and doing so brought him face to face with Chancellor Sutler; his stoic, stern, no bull-shit face glaring rigidly out of the box, promising a swift and righteous justice and no doubt a brutal and bloody end.

Speaking of which, Miles dared a glance down at his hands and saw the raw, torn skin about his knuckles – he smiled, he'd fought hard, he had no regrets. Save one, it could still be rescued, the night was still young but time was ticking by.

OoOoOoO

Finch had been up since 7am the day before the eve of the 5th. He had waited for his alarm clock to go off; mulling everything he had learned over in his head.  
He had let go of most of it but he was anxious. He was anxious about whether the country was perhaps unready for a cause such as this – its targeted generation too young to handle the task about to be put on them.

He snorted, V knew of this, of course. The man was anarchy incarnate and if Finch thought everything through to the bitter end, thought it out logically; with the so called 'handing over' of the country to its people, V's place no longer needed to be one person, ergo V would no longer be needed. After all, with no name, no face – V was already little more than a ghost. He could be anybody.

He sat up, his eyes crying out for sleep, desperately wanting to close, but his mind kept him awake, had him standing at his window minutes later – staring out at a red sky. A red sky in the morning is a shepherds warning.  
Having then left his flat, hell broke out – word spread of Mr Miles' treachery like fire across the savannah and the riot – reminiscent of the first - tore up country borders, the news was flooded and the next minute Sutler was on the television, giving the country a speech to abide by, to provide them with strength; alas, too late had he come.

Then Sutler, Creedy and four of his best men were quite suddenly gone and just like that; Finch knew where he needed to go.  
He hauled Dominique through the doors, throwing him the keys,

"Central Line, Dom, quick as you can,"

Dominique jumped into the driver's seat but he was quiet and Finch suspected that the white bag in the back had something to do with his decline and was sure it was something many a civilian had.  
They pulled up alongside an entrance to the central line underground and Finch hauled himself out with a sigh. He was about to proceed before Dominique gave him pause,

"Inspector…" he made a face, "it's all gone wrong, hasn't it?"

Finch didn't know what to say to that. It all depended on whose side one was on. Finch had no doubt that Dominique was with the majority as was Mr Miles and Miss Hammond.  
Finch, himself, however, despite accepting the inevitable, was struggling with a sense of failure. Regardless of right and wrong, he had a job which he had failed to do…  
Unless he managed to find a way to stop the freight train set to go at 12am.

Without a word, he closed the door, turned on his heel to open the gates which lead to the underground. Upon his descent, he heard Dominique drive away and Finch was on his own. Neither friend nor foe awaited him down there; he had no idea what to expect which made him nervous.

With a torch, his gun and a deep breath; Finch set off down the tunnel.

OoOoOoOoO

V had been unable to remove himself from Evey's bedroom from roughly 5pm onwards. His dominoes had fallen and failed to reassemble, Miles had started a riot, Evey was free, the country was about to start up in a new world – all was well but how things had changed.

10 years, he had a plan set as stubbornly as the sword in the stone but it wasn't him who pulled it out. Evey, so light and gentle upon her feet with the most petite frame in the world, waltzed in and picked it out between her forefinger and thumb whilst he had set it so that not even he could heave it out with all his brute mentality.

His world, so delicately shaped to suite his new existence, had been thrown… and here he was, waiting on a woman he'd give up his entire plan for, if she would just show her face even a minute before his finale.

No he wouldn't. But how he wished he would.

Even that was a nerve wracking thought, the mere whisper of a wish for a future other than that which he had planned for so long.

He didn't even notice when his radio, blabbering on about one thing or another the entire day suddenly had the voice of Chancellor Sutler.  
Sutler's demise was eminent and yet, was it any other day, V would have listened anyway. But it just didn't matter now.

Until, there came music from his hall. He followed it down, pacing gently towards the figure that stood in front of his juke box.

"I miss this song," said she, the ghost of the woman he had so unimaginably fallen for.

"I didn't think you'd come," he all but croaked coaxing her to turn to him,

"I said I would,"

"Ah…might I ask how you avoided detection?"

"A fake ID works better than a Guy Fawkse mask," she smiled weakly.

"Ah," he said again, this time chuckling at his own expense, "I must admit, every time I heard a siren, I worried about you,"

She shrugged,

"Hmm…well, I worried about myself for a while until one day when I was in a supermarket buying food and stood in line behind a friend. I was so nervous that when I reached for my money I dropped it. My friend bent down to pick it up, smiled and gave it back – paid for her own goods and left. Didn't even recognise me…" she looked up, looking V directly, in what would have been, his eye, "I guess what you did to me worked better than I could ever have imagined."

V instinctively took a step back. He felt guilt almost kill him whenever he thought about that dreadful time. He took a step to the side as if sidestepping the subject altogether,

"Evey…I have a gift for you but first would you…" this was ludicrous, "dance with me?"

"What?" she looked shocked, clearly thinking the same thing, "Now…on the eve of your revolution?"

He had to save his situation; luckily he knew of something smart to say as he always did, he had hundreds of smart things to choose from in that genetically modified brain of his.

"Well, a revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having,"

He bowed slightly, trying to seem enticing to her but the most he got was a nod, a brief pause and then,

"I'd love too."

And all seemed right with the world.

Time spent twirling gently about his dwelling was time well spent, but time was ticking by – his mortality approached cautiously but with assurance.

"Evey, it's time," he whispered, loath to break their attachment to each other, "And I must give you something…"

He pulled away from her, gently so as not to provoke,

"If you would kindly come with me,"

He turned from her and started for a door he had never shown her before. She followed without too many questions and barely a whisper shared between them, V lead her out onto a platform and there he witnessed Evey's reaction to the embodiment of his plan for the first time.

She looked awestruck, shocked at the magnitude of it.

"It's real…you're really going to do it…"

She stepped over the gap between the door and platform edge and into the carrier where she saw its innards to be lined with bomb matter, neatly stacked from floor to roof. She turned to him.

"What is it with everyone and believing that I might not do it? I've been raving about it for an entire year, how can I not?" he asked a tad more bluntly than was the norm.

Evey just smiled at him and turned back to what was before her,

"You're going to do it…"

"No," V answered quietly, drawing Evey's attention back to him, her hardened face puzzled, "_You_ will – if _you _want it to happen. You're apart of tomorrow, I am apart of yesterday and though they play a part in each other's existence they cannot co-exist. Different people will shape a different tomorrow as I have helped shape yesterday, it is only fair that the tomorrow people choose whether they want to reshape tomorrow."

"But this is what you've been planning to do all year! This was your destiny!"

"I don't play with dice nor do I believe in fate, you know this. Although it seemed easy, it was hard keeping myself alive for this but, Evey; my, Sutler's and Creedy's part all end tonight."

"What do you mean?"

"We all go out with a bang, like Parliament. So pull that leaver, Evey, if you think it right and I will go to meet my maker,"

He started away from her, quickly, terrified that he might not be able to leave if stayed a moment longer and these next few minutes were the most important.

"V, wait!"

And he did. He did so without thinking.

"You don't have to do this!" Evey arrived in his arms so neatly, so easily, "We can leave this all behind, we can leave here together,"

"Evey, all I am and ever will be lies at the end of that tunnel – it's a foul thing and must be stamped out. You were right…there's no train waiting for me,"

She shook her head,

"That's not true,"

And then she pulled his mask down to meet her lips and oh how V wished they were his own but how cruel life was to have taken them away from him. He'd been content for so long without his face that it no longer mattered what he looked like to himself and now, on the eve of his demise – a mere hour away, the brush of a kiss placed upon a face that he so badly wished belong to him had him an inch away from tears, life's little joke finally played out and dangled in front of him. He scowled inwardly but truly did consider just leaving it behind but no, he would not let this act of love get the better of him.

"I can't," and he turned and marched on, jumping down onto the tracks and disappearing into the darkness, his cape billowing behind him.

OoOoOoOoO

Miles raced through the streets in mere jeans and a sweatshirt. His usual smart, shadowy attire he had thrown in a garbage disposal crate.  
His gun was tucked into the back of his jeans and his shirt hung over to conceal it while Valerie's letter was securely in his jean pocket.

He found the central tube entrance he had entered so often and then slowed. He had to think now; he could not run in guns blazing and no plan. Besides, his follower could now be his attacker.  
He had it worked out in his head that V needed him to arrive for something or he wouldn't have brought it up. So he glided quietly through the underground, being ever so careful not to turn any stones or trip over any rails or touch any wires. If this train thing was going to work, then the wires would be on, the rails alive and a false move could have him dead within seconds.

It wasn't long before he heard voices, stern and angry voices – one loud shot that made Miles jump and shake where he stood.  
He wanted to run back out, away from gunfire but he shook himself free of fear and forced himself to keep going.

He found himself jogging towards the voices before long, coming to halt seconds before he heard Creedy, surrounded by his best Fingers, snarl,

"Kill 'im,"

And the little dome shaped, ex-station lit up with flashes of gunfire and echoed all through its halls with sharp chatter and Miles saw V take it like a comic book hero. The man didn't fall, though he grunted and cringed and swayed back and forth, arms flailing and cape like a sail in a high wind before they all ran out of bullets and V all but collapsed.

"NO!" Miles suddenly charged in, ripping the gun out from his jeans and taking up position in front of V, that awfully familiar unnamed presence suddenly far stronger, heavier, Miles could almost smell it, "No you will not…"

Creedy smiled at him,

"Mr Miles, a little bird told me of your endeavours today. I'm impressed…not only by your sudden act of courage– you know I've always thought you mild; Mild Mr Miles – but also by your stupidity. What do you plan on doing?"

Miles raised his gun and aimed it at Creedy's head, well aware that all guns were now pointing at him, but he knew they were bluffing, their guns were as empty as a dried river bed though it was intimidating,

"Who have you had following me?"

"Someone close to you, now get out of the way, we have a job to do,"

"No,"

"No?"

"You damn well heard me, you grotesque piece of shit on the wall!"

Creedy sniggered,

"I'm devastated. Looks like you'll have to shoot me because if you don't," he raised his own gun, "I'll shoot you first,"

"You're empty," Miles sneered but Creedy cocked what Miles knew to be an empty gun and grinned,

"Oh, really?"

Miles pulled his trigger and was met by a dull click. He shot again and was met by another dull click. Creedy grinned even wider,

"Oh what a shame,"

An empty shell…how had Miles not recognised an empty shell! He was furious and petrified and he had failed to protect V. He was dying behind him and although he had come to his aid, he had not even managed to kill Creedy for him and now both of them were going to die having accomplished nothing.

He frowned…well, he was at the very least.

"Good bye, Mr M…"

Creedy was cut off half way and his eyes widened and Miles, suddenly in dread, felt V rise behind him. He turned slightly, the sinister power that drove V was suddenly alive and the violence that could overtake his gentlemanly exterior was an inch from breaking through – it was chilling.

But what was at eyelevel was a little gold plated, shining piece of metal – a bullet. Miles double checked, eying it carefully; a live bullet.

"You have one shot, Mr Miles," came V's deadly rasp, allowing Miles to take it tenderly.

Then his knives were up and he threw them with such vigour, Miles jerked out of the way instinctively though theoretically, it was too late.

It seemed so slow as he watched those two knives fly through the air with such grace and hit their targets with such force that they were knocked off their feet and just like that – the race was on.

V stepped out from behind Miles and was on the move.

Miles fumbled with his gun, trying to get the bullet in as quick as he could but he couldn't do it nearly as fast as V was moving. Impossibly fast with impossible force and the memory of when Miles first encountered him was brought back, the pain he'd felt from V's fist coming back, Chester's attempt at a shot stamped out as Miles was catapulted into him – and Chester's gaze…hard, watchful…

V was roaring through the darkness, Creedy was dumbstruck and fearful in his attempt to outdo V but he was losing the battle just as quickly as everyone else until all of a sudden, it was over.

V turned to Creedy with a sinister and purposeful slight of foot and took Creedy's excess bullets with salt, approaching him still despite his body – once again – blanching against their impact.  
"DIE! DIE DIE! Why won't you DIE?!"

Then V was on him and Creedy had run out of bullets, his gun clicking blankly, eerily reminiscent of Miles', bittersweet karma,

"Why won't you die?" Creedy stuttered, eyes wide, fearful and awestruck

"Behind this mask, there is more than just flesh," V was inches from him now and Miles was still bloody fumbling, "Behind this mask is an idea, Mr Creedy, and ideas are…"

V lurched forward, driving Creedy up against the gate behind him, his legs bucking this way and that as V's hands tightened around his jugular,

"Bullet proof," V hissed and those were the last words Creedy ever heard. His body dropped to the floor like the useless sack of flesh it was, all life gone, the neck flimsy and his head lulled awkwardly to the side.

V was breathless,

"Mr Miles…"

Miles had stopped trying to get his gun sorted out for there appeared to be nobody left to shoot. V had it all covered and yet he still stood, a countless amount of bullets had not done the deed – this man would not die.

"V…?"

But something clicked, the man who whispered his name didn't belong behind a mask,

"Ben…" he whispered again and Miles turned and there, stepping from the darkness, Chester appeared. Unharmed albeit harder of face if that was at all possible.

"Mr Chester? I thought…you were dead!"

"Almost," he chuckled, "They gave me an ultimatum. I couldn't bear the torture so I promised them every ounce of information I had. I told them about you but they said I should save it and just follow you around."

Miles was struck dumb – his face similar to that of Creedy's as he lay there, still shocked by his own death,

"An ultimatum…"

"Do or die, Mr Miles, the only ultimatum Creedy knows…" he glanced at the dead man, "Knew how to give. And before you ask what I got out of this, I get to survive, is the answer. It should suffice."

"You lead them to me the night I was tortured, you bastard!"

"Yes, I thought you'd die but you didn't. I was impressed. But Mr Miles, look at what's in front of us, I did it all simply to stay alive and now, with Creedy and Sutler all gone and this…'V', dying before our eyes, control is on our hands – we can recreate England and make it farer, eh? We can start our own party and anarchy can fuck right off,"

Chester raised his gun at Miles and then slowly moved it over to V's slowly sinking form,

"I reckon one last shot will do the trick,"

"Drop the gun," Miles suddenly snapped too, his sharp tone drawing Chester's attention back to him. Chester looked at him incredulously,

"Are you seriously going to let this slip away?! He's a terrorist! This whole country went to shit, Miles and forced people like you and Deitrich into sordid hiding! This is a chance to start again without blowing up the most important symbol this country will ever have!"

"Put the gun down," Miles was stern, "Please, Mr Chester,"

"It's him or me, huh? Funny, either way, you land up alone and with nothing,"

"One shot…" V breathed, "Mr Miles,"

Miles took a breath but Chester took the last shot first and V crumbled like paper in a fire and Miles in response shot his 'friend' dead and he too crumbled but his head sprung backwards on impact. The one shot Miles ever took that actually hit the intended target.

Miles looked at Chester's suddenly lifeless body with horror…the bazaar feeling of being watched suddenly gone.  
Chester truly was the culprit and what a useless chain of events that entire catastrophe seemed to be. One extra life gone because of some weird surge of hope for replaced power. But Miles was relieved. He had chosen and he stuck with it though the consequences burned like acid.

He knelt down next to V, rolling him over,

"V?" he asked, tentatively, "Are you there?"

"Oh…" V's voice rattled away, "This body of mine was always doomed to fail,"

"No, no, Fawkse, we're going back to Evey," Miles took hold of V's arm and looped it about his neck, "On 3 – 1, 2, 3,"

He heaved and V rose with him but once up, Miles was instantly soaked, V's blood pouring from all the bullet holes. More than once did they lose balance and leave bloody trails along the walls of the station as they tried to keep moving.

Eventually they made it to the platform and Miles and V had nothing to lean on and down they went, bursting through the door and sprawling out over the floor.

"V!" Evey yelled, having been sitting on the platform bench and staring at the carriage of bomb material.  
She ran over to them with short steps, hands as delicate as rose petals as she began to cry, trying to stop the blood outflow. Miles had crawled out from beneath V's weight. Kneeling beside him, he suddenly looked so vulnerable, too much like everybody else with no more than flesh and bone. A gun did the deed.

"Th-thank you, Mr Miles,"

"No problem…" Miles felt somewhat awkward, "Thank you too, I guess,"

"Oh, I'm not fffinished with you, yet – If you'd be so kind as to step into that carriage there. I have a gift. You will spot – ah! – spot it,"

Miles glanced at the carriage, hesitant to take a step inside of it,

"It can wait,"

"No, go and see and come out and tell me what…you think,"

So Miles got up, making sure V was not going to die in the moments between going in and walking out. He made his way to the entrance, the exterior was beautiful enough but when Miles peered into the interior; the boxes, the reality of looking at all the explosives, was oddly liberating, oddly empowering.  
He stepped in and eyed everything up top to bottom before his gaze finally fell on a package, beautifully wrapped and complete with a bow. Miles sniggered; reaching for it to find it was quite light.

He unwrapped it slowly and with care, careful not to tear the paper or ruin the bow. Piece by piece he pulled out a conical hat, V's mask of the exact steely material the man used and the entirety of the suite that accompanied these two things including the cloak.

A little note left beneath them all lead Miles to peer behind one of the piles of bomb by a second carriage entrance to his left where he found the boots.

Understanding dawned on him like the morning light over a field of daisies. He carried these things out to where V and Evey were, in awe and allowing V to see his startled self blossom in excitement for Miles _was_ excited.  
For so long, he had no idea where he was in the midst of the chaos. He was so lost, so unsure of his place, of his part or if he even had one. And here, with the delightful gift, V had quietly…or not, told him exactly where his place was.  
And what a place it was, right front and centre; he was to be the very idea and would be the point V was trying to prove. He was going to _be_ V, for a moment – he would be the man that plotted to blow up parliament.

He couldn't say anything, for what could be said to a man that granted him the ultimate redemption and lay dying while he did so?  
So he nodded. He imagined V smiling at him from beneath that mask, a kinder smile, a more human smile of flesh.

"Vale, V," Miles whispered.

V clutched Evey's hand tightly but he managed a chuckle,

"Ave!"

And death came swiftly.

V had told Evey that he wanted a viking's funeral and the only way that that could be achieved was to have his body on the train.  
So together, he and Evey did so and laid him atop of his explosives and between his hands and his chest they put a Scarlet Carson and Valerie's letter which Miles had taken from his own pocket.

"You'll have to write me another copy," he smiled at Evey as he put on the last of his new attire, a little while later.

Evey returned his warmth,

"I think Valerie's done enough for us already, don't you think? Let her die, now."

Miles nodded; yes, let them die. They carried the world on their shoulders, it was only fair.

"Right," he turned to Evey once he'd finished dressing, "What do you think?"

She looked him over with care, eyes twinkling,

"Yes," said she, grinning in approval, "V,"

"It's almost time," Miles tapped his wrist, "I best be going,"

He turned and started his journey through the tunnel, following the tracks and was about to put on his mask when Finch was suddenly in front of him.

Miles stalled, as did Finch, his gun was ready and his face was clammy, his clothes dishevelled and he was out of breath leading Miles to have realised he'd been running.

"Good evening, Mr Finch," he said cautiously, handling the mask and looping it around his hands over and over.

"Good evening, Mr Miles…wh- what the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Well…" Miles looked down at himself, wondering but his conclusion was still the same, "What do you think, Mr Finch?"

"You can't be that man –"

"Oh? Why not? What if you're him and I'm just the guy in the crowd? What about Mr Chester? What about Creedy? You never know, now do you,"

"Don't talk like him,"

"I _am_ him, Mr Finch, as are you, as is Evey, as is everyone else out there. Now if you excuse me, I have to go watch Parliament get blown to shit,"

"Wait, Mr Miles!"

Miles turned expectantly,

"Yes?"

"You haven't sent the train off yet,"

"No,"

"Then who –"

"Who do you think?"

"Is he dead?"

"What would make you say that?"

"I heard gunshots," his voice went low, or lower for Finch's voice was already soft, "They were over before I could figure out where they were coming from…were you there?"

"Yup, somewhere in there are the bodies of…uh…well, they don't matter anymore but this does" he gestured to himself, "and I'm going to be late. I'll see you on the other side, Mr Finch, I'm sure,"

He tipped his new hat,  
"Good day,"

And just like that, Miles and Finch came full circle and as Miles had found his place; he had no doubt that Finch would find his. He'd let Miles walk away after all, he could have arrested him right then and there for murder but Miles walked away without a scratch.

Following the tracks towards light, Miles became aware that they were set just so – refurnished and relayed so that it appeared one might be walking out onto a grand stage.  
There came a sudden whir, and a low hum and shudder as the train somewhere behind him was set on its way.  
For a moment he feared he was going to miss his cue but the exit was upon him before panic got the better of him.  
He was pulling on his gloves as the music started its build, the flutter of violins and the steady one two of the horn as it slowly allowed the music to ascend. Miles almost – almost – stumbled over his own feet when he realised that he walked onto exactly what it appeared to be – a stage. A patch of land raised enough to present itself as such a thing and before him were thousands of V's looking him in the face. Even the army had turned around in fearful anticipation and had caught sight of him. All eyes were on him now.

The music was well on its way and as the final few moments of Parliament slipped by; Miles tipped his hat once more to the masses and turned to the great building for the last time.

The music came to a slowing climax before, just like a year ago, it exploded into itself and suddenly parliament was blowing up in time with it.

Miles laughed, going so far as to bob his head along with it.

The fire ploughed up the length of Big Ben's Tower until it too blew out and Big Ben's clock shattered into the tiniest shards, raining time upon them all and Ben, itself even gave one last ring before it too, fizzled out and the clang of metal gave up and came tumbling down sending dust and rubble flying their way.

Miles turned his face from the dust, his cloak waving about him.

Roars of salutations from newly freed voices rose up and into the night air, voices that would not be silenced.  
He straightened up to survey the crowds and to attempt to take in the magnitude of the moment. He was V. From starting at the bottom, Miles now found himself standing at the pinnacle of all things and in the shoes of the man who brought them freedom. He felt infinite, he was immortal. He was the idea that would never die, he was anyone and anyone could walk anywhere.

You cannot supress people; you cannot win against the formidable power of the human spirit.

And so came the end of a totalitarian regime and the literal rebirth of an entirely new country.

Yes there would be chaos as people tried to find their way in the morning but anarchy would be here soon, democracy would come into play. All this while the man in the mask lived forever; on people's walls, in their memory, on Halloween…on Guy Fawkse Night. Hope and faith would continue to flourish.

With that, Miles gave a swooping bow, drawing one foot elegantly behind the other, removing his hat in true vaudevillian character, bowing to the thunderous applause of a people united, roars of people unanimously defiant in the face of oppression.

More powerful than ever and above all, victorious, England Prevailed.


End file.
